


Arena

by brainofck



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, F/M, Gladiators, M/M, Prostitution, Rape, Sexual Slavery, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-19
Updated: 2013-07-19
Packaged: 2017-12-20 16:53:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 22
Words: 35,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/889613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brainofck/pseuds/brainofck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Viggo is somewhere else, where everyone and no one is the same.  Gladiator AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Arena

**Author's Note:**

> Any resemblance to Ancient Rome mostly incidental. I have never seen **any** gladiator flick. Ever. Honest. Not even stinky _Gladiator_ that stole FOTR's Oscar.
> 
> This is one of the first stories I wrote, when I still wrote in small pieces, WIP. I don't do that anymore, and I considered just lumping this into one long piece. But then I decided, nah, I'll post it on AO3 the way I originally did on LJ. Yes, fascinating writer's thought process, I know.

Suddenly the air was dusty and dry and hot. The stench was foul. Indescribable, within Viggo's experience. With a dreamlike feeling of unreality he realized he was holding a sword, much like Narsil, but heavier, and the grip wasn't quite the same. And the blade was bloody. Covered with blood. And darker matter. In a sort of confused haze he knelt forward and retched, only to find himself in a puddle of whatever various fluids had come out of the gutted body on the ground in front of him.

"Nightmare," he thought. The most horrific and realistic nightmare of his life. He leapt to his feet and spun away, trying to deny the dream image. All around him were the dead and dying. He looked again at his bloody sword, and wondered if he had killed them.

But there really wasn't any time to think about that now. Months of hard training brought his arm up to block the sword that was crashing down toward his head. He was holding a shield, as well, but Aragorn didn't fight with a shield and Viggo didn't have a clue what to do with one, so he threw it aside, took his strange blade in both hands, and fought.

It seemed to go on and on. Time stretching out and collapsing nonsensically, as it will in dreams. But then eternity came to an end. There was hardly anyone left to fight. He was afraid to lower his arms - afraid if he did, he would never lift them again. But as he looked over the battlefield and the bodies of the dead, horns blew and he knew that it was over.

Three other men still stood, widely spread around the huge enclosed space. With the battle ended, his dream reality was opening out and he realized that the deafening noise that he had hardly noticed before wasn't coming from the men still standing. It wasn't coming from the dead on the ground. It was coming from the people above them. Chanting. Stamping. Cheering. 

It was all too much. The exhaustion. The reek. The noise. Viggo found that he was sobbing on his knees, fingers locked around the hilt of his weapon. He bowed his head to his hands and tried to wake up. 

Then there were hands on his shoulders and a familiar warm voice in his ear. Encouraging him and shaking him. Urging him to get up, stop crying. Viggo opened his eyes and it was Sean. Beautiful and golden. And strangely young. 

And covered in blood. Face and hair streaked with it. Bare chest and arms covered with it. Viggo finally let go his sword to reach out and bemusedly touch a bit of grey matter on Sean's face. It was strangely warm and firm. Viggo brushed it away, still feeling the dissociation of nightmare, yet feeling more and more forced to acknowledge that it wasn't a dream. That somehow it was _real_. 

"I think you have brain on your face," Viggo said. Sean looked at him closely, then spoke to him softly. The voice was the same. Even the pattern and flow of the words. But they didn't make any sense at all. Viggo's lack of understanding must have shown in his face. Or perhaps Sean had asked him a question and Viggo hadn't answered. In any case, Sean sighed deeply, then with an encouraging smile, said something else that in tone sounded distinctly like "Let's get you on your feet" and wrapped a strong arm around Viggo's waist and hauled him up. To Viggo's surprise, the crowd roared even louder, and he realized he must have created some sort of drama with his collapse.

Barely managing to carry his sword, rather than drag it behind him, he allowed Sean to lead him forward. In the center of the arena, on a platform smeared with the remains of the dead, an elderly man in clean white robes decorated them with wreaths and flowers. The other survivors bowed low, and Viggo followed their example. Then armed guards came to escort them away.


	2. Oil and Water

The arena master was completely at a loss. 

"I have no idea whose he is. I would swear on my father's grave that no foreign slaves went in today. It was a festival melee! Only the best slaves go in for the big battles! And look, he's not even dressed properly!"

Sennet watched the two warriors together, his Sean and the outlander. They were a well-matched pair, with light eyes and light hair - so unusual. The stranger was clearly a swordsman of some skill - Sennet had watched from the tiers with the rest of the owners. He could imagine the two men, fighting back to back. The reaction of the crowd earlier showed that they would be favorites. 

The outlander was also clearly confused and distressed. He was watching Sean with an almost hungry look, staying close to him and obviously taking cues from him. Much to Sennet's surprise, Sean was tolerating the attention, even down to showing the outlander how to clean himself, of all things.

"What will you do if no one comes forward to claim him?" Sennet asked the arena master, as casually as he could manage. 

The old man completely understood the point of the question. 

"It would be a big inconvenience for me to keep him here," the man lied. The coliseum was full of cells and rooms where the outlander could be locked away for a few days. "And I suppose, if no one comes for him, we'll auction him eventually."

"What if I provided a place for him?" Sennet proposed blandly. "If someone comes for him in the next few days, you can send them to me. And I'd be happy to pay a fair price for him now, so that if no one ever comes, then you don't need to bother with the trouble of the auction."

Money changed hands. And Sennet brought home a fine new addition to his garrison.

* * *

The stranger followed Sean like an obedient dog. Sean wondered where he had come from. Sean had followed much of the low, hurried conversation between the arena master and Sennet, as he stripped off his garments and went to the basin to wash off the worst of the filth of his day's work. An unidentified slave? Unheard of! The stranger watched him uncertainly. 

No. Actually, Sean thought the man hadn't watched him at all. His eyes had a dazed, cloudy look. He swayed on his feet. Sean sighed and walked back over to him. He took the stranger's hands, which brought startled eyes to his face. He smiled as reassuringly as he could and placed the man's fingers on the fastenings of his odd clothing. The clothes were a mess, the blood-soaked cloth sticking to the man's body. Not at all what he ought to have been wearing in the arena. Sean wondered again how he had ended up there. He wondered if he could have been brought here as someone's guest, then shoved over the wall into the fray. Well, there was no way to ask him about it. 

At Sean's prompting to undress, the man seemed to wake up. He saw what was expected of him, and began to remove his clothes. Sean left him to it and went to wash.

When he was done, Sean took the bowl of oil in hand and waited for the man. It was only polite to help another combatant with the oil and scraper, and Sean was beginning to wonder if the stranger would even know what to do on his own. As he had suspected, when the man turned to him again, his eyes widened at the sight of the oil in the bowl. Sean shook his head, and pointed to their companions in the room, already well on their way through this process, the one already scraping the oil and dirt from the other.

The outlander nodded, though a bit shakily.

Applying oil to the man's skin, Sean looked carefully for a brand that would mark the man as a slave. Again, as he suspected, Sean could find nothing that seemed to be the right thing. There were certainly markings on the man's body, but nothing that looked like any mark of ownership Sean had ever seen. They weren't brands at all, but the ink designs that one saw on the dark skinned barbarians that were sometimes brought to the arena to fight.

More and more convinced that this was a free man standing in the halls of the arena slaves, Sean was furious when he saw Sennet pay the bribe. But he was a slave, and even the most valuable slave knows when to keep his mouth shut.

Sean instead concentrated on applying oil to the body before him. The stranger was well suited to the life it seemed he was entering. Well-muscled, though not as heavily as the other slaves in the room. He was lanky and sinewy where they were denser and thicker. Still, if the stranger usually fought with a sword, he seemed to be built for it. Sean moved oiled hands down from broad shoulders to narrow waist, carefully covering every inch of skin; then over and around the shoulder and bicep of each long arm, pleased with well-developed forearms, and long, graceful fingers. Sean wondered what the man's life had been, in his home far away, before this strange afternoon.

More oil on his hands, then smooth over buttocks and thighs and calves. Sculpted strong legs, down to obviously calloused feet. The man's shoes were made strangely and with a quality that Sean had never seen, so he suspected the man must go barefoot often. Sean rose and moved around to face the outlander, who had sensibly already applied oil to his own chest and torso. He reached forward tentatively toward Sean, who laughed. "Let me finish you first," he said, reaching for the scraping tool on the bench.

He scraped gently over the oiled skin. The dirt, and blood, and other soil of the battle coming away and sloughing to the floor. Then it was done and Sean stood to take his own turn.

The man took the bowl. But he didn't work methodically, as Sean had. The stranger seemed to paint Sean's body. And he started in front, not behind, applying oil to places Sean could easily have reached himself. The man's eyes were intent, and looking at his face, Sean realized that the outlander was older than his body would have had Sean believe. There were fine smile lines and crows feet and strands of silver in the sandy hair. 

And a scar on his upper lip. It was then that Sean realized that the man had come through the afternoon completely unscathed. Not so much as a split knuckle. Sean looked on him with a new respect. The man was already finding Sean's little hurts from the day. A scrape here, a deep bruise there. The man murmured over them in concern, and once looked up as if to ask a question, but as there were no words to say, he left it unsaid and went back to his work. 

His long fingers covered Sean with strange patterns and designs. Sean might have complained, but the job eventually got done, and there was something familiar and strange and reassuring and unsettling about the whole experience that Sean was hesitant disturb.

As the man lay the tool aside and finally rose to his feet, Sean suddenly needed to know one thing.

He pointed to himself. Somehow the man already knew, but he said it anyway.

"Sean." He said, softly and clearly.

The man laid his right palm open over his heart. 

"Viggo."


	3. Flesh and Iron

Viggo had begun to suspect that he had been assigned to Sean as a sort of project. Viggo's first days had been long and filled with what seemed to be tests. The elderly man in command of the compound, their Weapons Master, had given Viggo weapon after odd weapon and set the other men against him. Viggo had earned nods of approval for his knife work, and frankly stunned reactions to his sword play, but had been hopeless with the other weapons, many of which he couldn't even name. Sean was beside him at every step. Providing words; discussing his performance with the Weapons Master; and offering Viggo a reassuring and comforting presence as he faced humiliation after humiliation. 

When the testing was done, and his training began, Sean was his sparring partner day after day. Viggo was grateful, but he often wondered what offense Sean had committed to deserve the onerous task of training him.

On the first night, after their honors in the arena, the evening meal in the garrison had been raucous. The Weapons Master presided over the meal from the head of the table, and six other men joined them for the meal. They showered Sean with questions, and seemed to be teasing him mercilessly. When they tried to speak to Viggo and he didn't understand, they laughed and taunted him as well. But when Sean began to speak, the room fell to a complete hush, with only exclamations and cheers from his rapt audience. Even the Weapons Master had been attentive. 

When the food was eventually eaten and the story finished, the Weapons Master leaned over and muttered something in Sean's ear. Whatever he said infuriated Sean. He stood suddenly, gripped Viggo's shoulder hard, and gestured that Viggo should follow him. Then he shoved aside a curtain, revealing a long narrow corridor back into the building. He stalked down the hall to a low doorway. He stopped and motioned Viggo in ahead of him, with one of those broad friendly smiles he had been using with Viggo since he helped him up from the arena floor. But this time, the smile didn't touch his eyes. Viggo stepped through the door and waited.

Sean had quick, angry words with the Weapons Master, who had followed them to the door. When Sean finally entered the room and pulled the door closed behind him, he was still muttering to himself. He turned to face the door and Viggo heard the distinct sound of a bar thudding into place on the other side. Viggo shivered in the darkness of the warm night.

* * *

The guards had come for him early on his third day in the compound. Sean had already left their room to wash and eat. Viggo was sore and stiff from his weapons work, and moving more slowly towards breakfast. He was only half-dressed when they came in.

They led him out into the cool, moist morning. They caught his arms as he approached the blacksmith's hut, but he didn't understand what was happening until he saw the twining pattern of the glowing metal. It matched the burned mark, high on Sean's left shoulder. He'd fought then, but it was far too late. They pinned him hard against the wall. When he finally stopped struggling, one of the guards offered him a strap to bite.

He would never forget the bitter, acrid smell of hot iron and his own burning flesh.

By the time Sean burst into the hut, it was over. The guards let go his arms and stepped back. Despite the fact that it hurt more than anything Viggo could remember, it was only a small burn. He kept his feet, though he stumbled a little when the guards suddenly let him go. He spat out the strap and handed it to the blacksmith's boy. Viggo was vaguely aware of Sean yelling at the guards, who just laughed at him; then at the blacksmith, who replied with soothing words. The boy took Viggo by the hand and led him to a bench by the door. He pressed a small hand gently into the middle of Viggo's back. There was a basin of water on the floor. Viggo lay forward on the bench so that his burned shoulder was over the basin. The boy began to ladle the water over the burn. The first cold touch brought a sob from Viggo, the first sound he had made since entering the hut.

* * *

When the cold water had reduced the unbearable burn to a throbbing heat, Viggo sat up and tried to regroup. He was startled to find that it was not the boy treating his shoulder any longer, but Sean. As Viggo moved to stand, Sean came up on his right side, wrapping an arm around his waist, so that Viggo could drape his good arm around Sean's shoulder and lean on him as they crossed the yard. Viggo wanted to be strong, push Sean away. There wasn't any reason Viggo couldn't walk on his own back to the barracks. But his head felt light, and Sean's warm strength was reassuring contact, and Viggo didn't have the will to fight anyway. He let Sean guide him back to their room, though he had enough presence of mind to notice when the door creaked closed behind them and the bar thudded into place. They hadn't been locked in during the day before. Sean was muttering under his breath again.

Sean pressed Viggo to lay on the low sleeping platform they shared. He settled Viggo on his right side, then climbed over him to arrange cushions in front. When everything was how he wanted it, he nudged Viggo forward, guiding him to drape his left arm over the pillows, so that the cushions supported Viggo's left chest and shoulder. It was comfortable like that, and Viggo suddenly felt exhausted, like he could fall asleep if left alone, despite the ache in his shoulder and back.

Sean left him there and went to rummage in the carved chest in the corner where he kept his clothes and other few belongings. Viggo felt Sean's weight on the bed again. There was a strong medicinal fragrance, then a cool touch to the skin just below the burn. Viggo flinched away. Sean put a steadying hand in the small of his back. He said something in a reassuring voice, then the cool touch came again, this time on the burn itself. Viggo finally screamed. He cried into the pillow, but he didn't move.

* * *

Viggo was just catching his breath again, when Sean came back to the bed. Sean tugged at the loose pants Viggo had been wearing. 

"No. I'll just sleep in them," Viggo protested hoarsely. But his nurse was insistent, and finally Viggo shifted his hips, and uncurled his legs a little, so that Sean could strip him and be done with it. Though he was starting to feel like an idiot, lying here in the bed. Whatever Sean had put on his shoulder was already working, the throb reduced to a painful ache. But as long as the door was closed, there wasn't much to do anyway but sleep or think. Sleeping was much better than thinking.

The last few days made sense, now. He wasn't a prisoner, he was a slave. Some kind of fighting slave, apparently. He thought back over how well they had been fed, the quality of their housing, the amount of freedom the others were allowed, and he guessed that they must be very valuable slaves and possibly willing. What was he going to do?

Again, Sean left the bedside and returned. This time the cool touch on his back was slick, and the fragrance was floral. Viggo almost flinched away from it. What was it with this place and oil? The fact that every day he had been here Sean had found some reason to touch him with oiled hands was enough to have him think, for the hundredth time, that this was some sort of extended hallucination - a cross between a wet dream and a nightmare - and that he was going to wake up in the morning with a tear-damp pillow and sticky sheets. But the ache in his shoulder still throbbed. That had been too real for a dream.

Sean pressed and kneaded Viggo's muscles as efficiently as he'd oiled and scraped him in the bath. It was amazing. He needed it desperately after two long days of hard training. Viggo relaxed forward into the cushions supporting him, trusting them to hide any embarrassing reaction to Sean's touch.

As he worked Viggo's muscles with strong hands, Sean began to chant, quietly, barely more than a whisper. Viggo tried to follow it. It had a sing-song rhythm that reminded Viggo of spoken histories and sagas, but he couldn't pick out any words yet. The murmur would have been soothing, Viggo thought, except that as he went on, Sean's hands were traveling lower on Viggo's body, first doing wonderful things for his lower back, then kneading and pressing hard into the muscles of his buttocks, then down over sore thighs and tight calves. Sean continued to chant. Viggo thought the verses were repeating. The sound of Sean's silk and honey voice, combined with the touch of his hands on Viggo's skin, had Viggo so hard he was aching. Even though Viggo knew what was going to happen. Even though he knew that Sean was going to roll him over to do the fronts of his legs, and the effects of Sean's touch would be evident for anyone to see. But he couldn't bring his tired, confused, and now lust-hazed brain into focus on any thought that would distract his cock.

Soon enough, Sean began to shift the bedding, gently tugging Viggo's cushion out of his arms and wedging it carefully against his back, urging Viggo to roll over. Viggo fought the urge to squeeze his eyes shut in embarrassment. He was an actor, after all. Instead he schooled his expression to relaxed and drowsy. He kept his eyes open long enough to give Sean what he hoped was an appreciative half-smile, before letting his lids fall closed and settling back into the bed with an contented sigh. _Best damned performance of my life,_ Viggo thought, because he had seen Sean's eyes flicker down and the tiny smile that touched his moving lips. Viggo imagined that most people wouldn't have seen the look, it was so subtle. Sean's hands on the fronts of Viggo's thighs were as efficient as they had been everywhere else. It seemed that Sean lingered there, working those muscles even more thoroughly, but Viggo put that down to his own imagination and the way time seemed to stretch during the most humiliating and embarrassing scenes. He tried to focus on Sean's words instead of his hands.

Sean was finally finished. The chanting ended. The hands lifted off his body. Sean draped a light blanket over him then rustled around the room. Viggo rolled back onto his stomach and began to relax into the drowsy state he had been feigning. But then, oddly, he felt Sean on the bed again. He slipped under the blanket with him, and Viggo was startled to feel bare skin against his arm and side. He was even more startled when Sean wrapped himself around him, throwing a strong heavy thigh over Viggo's legs and carefully wrapping a long arm over Viggo's lower back. His face pressed into Viggo's good shoulder and Viggo was suddenly hyper-aware of something else, hard and hot, pressing against his hip. Then Sean was still and soon after his breathing evened out in sleep.

It was a long while before Viggo was ready to drowse again.


	4. Night Terrors

The days wore away. Viggo trained constantly. In the mornings, they focused on teaching him new weapons. He became proficient with several. The afternoons were devoted to practice with the sword. Basic sparring with members of the barracks. Coaching in technique from the Weapons Master, learning how to use a sword to fight the strange weapons he'd practiced with in the morning. How to face an opponent with a spear, a hook, an ax, a club - it went on and on. If he had been training for a role, it would have been an amazing experience, he often thought. But he knew there was a purpose to this training. Eventually he was going to be ordered to use it, perhaps in another large battle like the one he'd fought that first day. Or maybe in some other entertainment that would be much more cold-blooded and personal. 

And even if he pushed those thoughts away for a while, every night the bar fell into place across the door behind him.

At night he dreamed nightmares of the arena. On that day he fought like a berserker, out of his head, and could hardly remember any of it in the waking hours. But the dreams were vivid with images of mangled bodies and bloodied hands and merciless steel. And everynight, in his nightmares, Viggo looked down at the ground at his feet and saw Sean with Viggo's own sword though his gut.

Viggo would startle out of these dreams, heart pounding, trembling, sometimes crying, once screaming. He would wake in the strange shadowy room he now shared with Sean. After the first night of dreams, Sean had left the fire burning brightly on their small hearth, though the sleeping platform was layered in warm quilted comforters and down cushions. The two of them in it together made it almost unbearably hot, but Sean seemed to understand that Viggo needed the light in the night.

* * *

Viggo gasped awake. He shoved himself up to all fours and sat back onto the mattress, dragging the covers with him. Sean, who had over the last few weeks learned to sleep through all but the worst of Viggo's night terrors, cracked a sleepy eye to protest the covers being pulled away. Viggo was wild-eyed and shaking in the firelight, talking to him in his outlandish tongue. His look was unfocused and far away, looking directly at Sean, but also through him. Sean thought maybe he was still trapped in the dream, not quite able to wake up from the horror. Tears were streaming down his face. It sounded like Viggo was begging, pleading with him for something Sean couldn't understand. 

Sean sat up slowly. He reached out and took his friend by both shoulders, shaking him gently.

"Viggo," he murmured, "It's alright. It was only a dream. Wake up now."

Those distressed, strangely sightless eyes fell still unfocused on Sean's face. Then in a strange, thick accent, Viggo said, "You're not him. You're not Sean. He's not here. And I killed you. You're dead. What's happening Sean? I don't understand what's happening." Then he faded away again, rambling off into alien speech, then dissolving back into sobs. 

It was heartbreaking. Sean shook him hard this time. 

"Viggo," he called, much louder this time. "Viggo! Wake up, Viggo. It's over now. Viggo!" 

With a start, Viggo's eyes snapped into clear focus. Viggo was with him again. He looked confused, then embarrassed. 

"Sorry," Viggo said. He scrubbed at his wet face with both hands, then climbed off their bed to go wash his face in the basin. He took a long drink of the cool, fresh water there, then slowly crawled back up onto the bed. He lay down again facing away from Sean, looking out the window into the night. Sean pulled the covers over them both and lay down close behind his friend, wrapping his arms around him. Viggo squirmed away from him.

"No," he said clearly, then followed it up with more in his own language. Sean just tightened his arms and held him until he gave up his resistance and went still. 

"Go back to sleep," whispered Sean, and he tried to follow his own advice.

Only to find that he couldn't. His mind was going in circles now. Sean was caught completely off guard by Viggo's sleep-talking. The outburst showed a mastery and understanding of his new langugage that Sean would never have guessed. As far as he knew all Viggo had picked up was "sorry" and "thank-you." Not even "please" seemed to be in his vocabulary yet. But now Sean wondered just how much Viggo knew. How much he understood. 

How much Sean himself had said, thinking he was protected by words, or the lack of them.

Sean had said so many things.

* * *

"We fight in a week," Sean said. Viggo looked up, startled by the announcement, and immediately fought to change his expression from shocked to bland lack of understanding.

Sean looked him straight in the eye and just shook his head.

"You can stop playing this game with me, Viggo. I know you've understood everything anybody's said to you for weeks. We fight again next week. Do you understand what that means?"

Sean was right, of course. Viggo had been soaking in the words and phrases, though he still didn't get every word. He had hidden his understanding as a means for rejecting complicated commands and trying to maintain the small advantage of the outsider. But Sean if knew... Viggo shrugged and tried out the new words for the first time.

"Why do they think I will fight?" They felt strange on his tongue.

Sean looked at him hard. "If you don't fight, you die. Everyone fights."

"Maybe I'd rather die than be a murderer," Viggo replied. The words came slowly. But he was fairly certain they were right.

"Maybe," Sean agreed. There was quiet in the room. Just the crackling from their fire, and the occassional squeal and giggle from the woman Maris was fucking next door.

"Have you noticed that you are the only prisoner here?" Sean asked, suddenly. "I know you're angry that they marked you. _I'm_ angry they marked you. But that can't be changed now. You live here. You will be a slave in the arena until you are given your freedom, or buy it, or die for the entertainment of others. If you accept that fact as unchangeable, this is a good life. We eat meat every day. Soft bread. The best fruits and vegetables in season. A warm, dry, safe place to live." A particularly loud squeal from the next room interrupted him, "Women if you want them." Then a calculating long look. "Men if you don't."

Viggo just stared into the fire and didn't reply. Sean sighed in exasperation.

"Did you know I'm a wealthy man?" Sean asked. Viggo didn't know, of course, but he had been practicing not reacting for almost three months now, and it was easy to just gaze into the fire and not show his surprise.

"I sold myself to the Weapons Master. I gave half the money to my sister and half to an old friend of my mother's to hold for me. I have added to it every time I have fought in the arena. Masters traditionally give a portion of a slave's award monies to him. And Sennet is a generous master. And I often gamble on my own fights. And I always win. I already have the money to buy a small estate, when I'm free."

"You could have that, too," Sean said.

"Maybe I don't want to be a hired killer," Viggo said softly.

Sean was annoyed now. "Everyone who enters that arena is a killer," said Sean. "Everyone you meet there wants to kill you. You aren't a murderer. You are a warrior on the battlefield, facing your enemy and fighting for your life."

"Really?" asked Viggo. "And what if they put me in the arena and tell me to fight you?" For some reason, suddenly Viggo couldn't look Sean in the eye. So he looked back into the depths of their fire instead.

He was surprised when Sean laughed. A scornful, angry laugh, that brought Viggo's eyes back to his friend's face. " _We_ fight again in a week, Viggo. Sennet has taken it into his head to fight us as a pair. So you won't be fighting me, at least not anytime soon. But if you decided _not_ to fight, it might not just be _your_ suicide..."

And Viggo had thought they couldn't force him.


	5. First

They stood just inside the tunnel leading out into the arena. There was some sort of announcing going on, but Viggo tried to ignore it. Sean stood facing him across the tunnel, armed with a nasty thrusting spear and a fist-shield. Viggo was intensely grateful that his weapon today for his first, _no, second,_ visit to this place was just a sword. His shield matched Sean's. They were dressed identically, too. Like something out of a bad gladiator flick. Little leather skirts that Viggo presumed were mostly for the sake of modesty. Long, soft leather boots. And that was it. When Viggo was shocked that they were expected to fight this way, Sean laughed at him, pointing out that they would have full freedom of movement and their feet were covered.

"What more do you want?" he asked.

"I dunno. A little more protection?!"

"That's not really the point, is it?" Sean replied. "And this way, the crowd gets to see you bleed."

It was the only bitter word about his chosen life that Viggo had ever heard Sean utter.

Then they were walking out into the bright sun, the crowd was roaring and stomping, the sand was hot, and Viggo was in his nightmare again.

Crossing the sand towards them were their opponents. Sean looked them over and swore. Viggo took that as a bad sign.

"I wonder who Sennet pissed off?" he muttered.

They were taller than he and Sean by a head, easily, and much heavier. And axes. 

It was going to be ugly.

The middle of the large arena had been set off with two large circles of flat black stones on the white sand. With a growl and another mutter, Sean stalked off to the left, gesturing with his spear for Viggo to go right. 

Viggo stepped over the ring of stones into the circle on the right. His opponent did the same. The man was dressed similarly to himself. He held his weapon with ease. Gave it a huge swing around his head, drawing an answering shout from the stands. Viggo tried to appraise him with a warrior's eyes, and all he could see was a couple hundred pounds of killing machine. His hands were sweating. He strove to steady his heart rate with deep, slow breathing through his nose. He smelled the saltiness of his own sweat. Viggo flung his shield away. He hated fighting with them anyway, and it wasn't going to do him any good against the weight of that ax. The crowd gave another roar of approval at this apparent act of defiance.

The official raised his arm and the crowd went still. 

"You will face your opponents honorably and fight man to man within your circles. If you step outside the boundary, you forfeit your bout and your honor and you will be given to the beasts tomorrow morning. When your opponent is dead, you may turn to the aid of your sword brother. Begin."

The suddenness of it left Viggo with his head spinning. His opponent didn't miss a beat. He threw himself across the broad circle of stones at an all-out run, his ax flying, roaring a hideous frightening battle cry. 

It was like the other time. His world narrowed to the oncoming man. Noise and heat faded away. Some other person, some warrior person, with reflexes and training and skill took over Viggo's body. Only this time, he knew he'd won. The man came at him, Viggo waited til the last possible moment, sidestepped and struck. The man went by him, carried forward by his momentum. The stroke cut him through to his spine.

* * *

Well, there wasn't anything that could be done about it. Usually, the arena master did a better job matching the fighters, especially for a new slave's first appearance. But it wasn't for the combatants to choose whom they would fight. He and Viggo had these two and that was that.

He could tell how frightened his friend was, and all he could do was hope that the same instincts and abilities that had served him so well in that first melee would carry him through this more personal combat. Sean turned his back on Viggo deliberately and faced his own opponent, easy and confident. He hoped that his own calm would help ease some of Viggo's fear.

The battle began and Sean heard the battle cry from behind him. He kept his eyes on his own man. Tall, heavy, with a more substantial weapon, but with less reach. Sean was good with a thrusting spear. A couple of openings and a little luck were all he needed.

Sean began to circle carefully, gauging his opponent's reactions. But the man was making the most basic mistake of a new slave to the fight. He wasn't paying attention to Sean. He was watching his sword brother. Sean moved carefully so that he was just on the edges of the man's peripheral vision, then began a swift rush in.

Except the man was no longer there. His sword brother had fallen to Viggo's first cut, and the man was screaming, howling, and without regard for the rules of the event, flinging himself toward Viggo as fast as he could run.

Sean chased him. Viggo turned in response to the shout. The crowd was in a frenzy of stomping and screaming. Viggo dropped to one knee and evaded the man's first attack. As the man turned, Sean drew back his spear and hurled it. It wasn't designed for throwing, and the Weapons Master sucked his teeth and spat in the dust when he caught Sean practicing. 

But the short heavy spear plunged deep into his chest, and the man fell back into the dirt.

* * *

"You couldn't have made it a bit more interesting, could you?" Maris asked in mock outrage. 

Viggo replied only with the hesitant smile of a man who doesn't understand, but wants to.

"Maybe he can make it more interesting if they give him somebody better to fight," Sean retorted, drawing thumping and whistling up and down the table. Viggo let his smile broaden.

But instead of replying with a joke or an insult, Maris raised his cup and turned back to Viggo.

"I salute you, Viggo of Sennet's barracks, upon your valiant victory in your first combat! I doubt if there's anybody better than you with a sword, and I count myself lucky that the rules don't let us fight each other as long as we share a barracks." He tipped his cup back, and the rest of the table drank to his victory. A kind gesture to the barracks' idiot. Viggo hid his embarrassment in his cup. 

"However," Hadrian added, "You still have much room for improvement. You should take Sean as your example. Very impressive piece of work today, brother!" Here more thumping and whistling. They all drank to Sean's accomplishment. There was general outrage at the other man's attack on Viggo - from behind, in violation of the rules of the fight. 

"But Sean managed a clean kill in spite of it all. Attacked from the front. And didn't leave his circle til his man was dead! Drink to Sean and honor in the face of barbarism!"

The afternoon had faded into a haze of food and wine and laughter. Viggo was amazed at the real relief and joy to have them both back and at the table again.

* * *

The door closed behind them with the familiar thump. Viggo was more than a little drunk, and Sean was even farther gone. The room was warm and the light was soft and for a rash moment, Viggo wondered what Sean would do if he just took him in his arms and kissed him. Even in his haze, he knew what a terrible idea it would be, but that failed to stop the sigh of disappointment.

Sean turned back to him from where he was stripping out of his clothes for sleep. Suddenly, he was staring at Viggo with an intensity that didn't make any sense at all. 

"I know what you want," Sean said, his voice thick and sweat with mead. He let the last bit of clothing drop to the floor. He was coming back across the room now, and Viggo had finally placed the look. Drunken lust. He took an involuntary step backward, but the room was small and there wasn't another step to take. Sean was there, undoing the laces of Viggo's shirt with remarkably steady fingers, watching him with that same predatory look.

Viggo knew he should say something. Protest that Sean didn't know what Viggo wanted. That Sean - no, both of them - would regret this in the morning. That they both knew how clearly Maris could hear them through the wall. But he couldn't make his brain produce the words. In his hazy state he had gotten stuck between how much he wanted it and how well he knew he couldn't take it.

Then the door opened.

Sean saw them and laughed. He swooped the blond up in his arms, eliciting something between a laugh of delight and a shriek of fear. He deposited her flat on her back on their bed and began lavishing her with hungry kisses as the two of them worked at cross-purposes to get her clothes off.

Viggo realized he was staring, and turned his head abruptly, only to find that the second young woman was standing by the Weapons Master, watching him expectantly. The Master wasn't bothering to turn his head, watching Sean and the woman across the room with and expression that was disturbingly like paternal pride. 

"He'll give her what she wants tonight," he said approvingly. Then turned to Viggo. He gestured at the woman.

"The girls asked for you. And no man should sleep alone after a victory in the arena."

* * *

Viggo sat huddled on the corner of the bed, as far from the rutting couple as possible, watching the stars out their window. It was a long time since Viggo had tried to wake up from the dream. It was his life in Wellington and before that seemed like the dream, these days, distant, like it had all happened to another person. He wondered if this was what the elves had felt, after living fifty or a hundred lifetimes. No wonder they walked in waking dreams. Viggo thought that maybe mortals weren't equpped for the waking dream - not ready to live multiple lifetimes and leave so much behind as the years swept them forward. At this moment Viggo very much wanted to wake up from the dream.

The woman sat across the window from him. At first she had been wide-eyed and confused, but now she just seemed angry and disgusted. Viggo didn't care. He had never been so happy that they believed he couldn't understand. He could see everything she wanted to say in the hostile set of her features and the anger of the lines of her back and arms. It was a relief when the Weapons Master appeared to let the women out of their locked room some time in the small hours of the night. Viggo lay down as far as possible from his sated friend and let himself fall into an exhausted sleep.

* * *

When he woke in the morning, it was late. Their door was ajar, but no one had called them, and Sean was still snoring heavily.

Viggo rose and dressed quickly, wincing against the headache, and glad it wasn't any worse. Then he walked out through the training yards and up to the house.


	6. Opening

"What do I have to do to get the door opened?"

Sennet looked up in surprise at the voice. He hadn't heard his visitor approach. Then he almost choked on the bite of breakfast he had just taken.

Viggo was standing there, in the morning light of Sennet's work room. Sennet looked around in confusion for the person who had spoken.

Viggo took a menacing step forward and laid both hands palms flat on the table.

"What do you want from me?" Viggo demanded, in the same low, dangerous voice that had spoken before.

Sennet started at him. Then began to laugh.

"Well, well! You've managed a trick, haven't you, my wonderful outlander! The Weapons Master assured me you were something close to an idiot. Couldn't understand a word. I can't wait to tell him!" Sennet used his amusement to cover his sudden fear of this man, standing over him, unarmed, but clearly angry and maybe even more dangerous than they had ever thought him.

Viggo returned his laughter with cold silence. Sennet allowed his chuckles to die away in a long-suffering sigh. He gestured to a chair opposite him. Viggo didn't sit, but he did step back from the table and stared at Sennet icily with those pale, alien eyes.

"Fine," he said, "You want the door opened, you swear your loyalty to me. That's the end of it. The door will be open tonight."

"And how do I get my freedom from this place?" Viggo asked, with the same cold anger.

Sennet allowed himself to become angry at that.

"A man who wears a collar and a sword does not concern himself with freedom. He thinks only about his next fight, he trains for it constantly, and he knows that if he fights well he will earn honor and fame for himself and his barracks. That's all a man like yourself should think about. If you keep fighting for me like you fought in the arena yesterday, one day you will earn my gratitude and possibly your freedom."

Viggo lunged forward again, and this time actually laid hold of Sennet, yanking him to his feet, so that they stood face to face over the narrow table. Then just as suddenly, Viggo released him, sending him stumbling a bit with a little shove, shaking in his effort to control his fury.

"I don't fight for you!" he spat. "Let's be clear. My allegiance is to Sean, not to you. And you can be sure that as long as he stays in this barracks and fights for you, I will stay."

"But let's also be clear about something else. We both know how I came here. We both know what you did. I will not earn back the life that you stole from me when you paid that bribe. You will give it to me, or I will take it from you. Don't make me wait too long."

"That's as much of a loyalty oath as you're getting from me," Viggo growled. "Open the door tonight."

Sennet stood backed against the wall, staring in shock at his slave. It was the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard. Here was this barbarian, trying to get the door to his cell unlocked with refusal to swear loyalty and thinly veiled threats on his master's life, and demands for the return of his stolen freedom? He laughed unsteadily to himself. Viggo saw the reaction. He turned on his heel to stalk from the room.

"No, Viggo! Wait!" Sennet managed.

Viggo stopped where he was and turned to face him.

"Sit." Sennet ordered.

To his surprise, Viggo did.

Sennet returned to his seat and his breakfast, gesturing that Viggo should join him, but not surprised when his slave rather leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms, the picture of a man whose time is being wasted. The arrogance of the barbarian was both shocking and amusing.

"What made you happy, in your former life?" Sennet asked, as he might while enjoying a pleasant breakfast with another citizen.

Viggo didn't even pause. 

"My son."

That brought Sennet up short. He thought for a moment.

"Well, it seems to me that considering where I found you, your son was long lost to you before I..." He paused, groping for an appropriate word. "...intervened."

Viggo was watching him closely. The statement earned a grudging nod.

"My horses. My dogs. My art. Mountains. Deserts."

The list somehow fit the man. Sennet went on with his breakfast, thinking carefully.

Finally, he stood. 

"Wait here for me," he said, and went into the next room.

* * *

Viggo's heart was pounding. He had never been so angry and afraid. Furious at this man who controlled him. Furious at himself because the real reason he was here was not to demand his "freedom," but more liberties within his slavery. But he thought he had drawn the line well, and Sennet seemed remarkably respectful of his outrage.

Yet.

Viggo waited for the guards to come in and kill him. Or worse, drag him to some auction block somewhere to be sold to a new master and never see Sean, the Sean of this world, who wasn't even really Sean... Never see even him again.

But instead, Sennet came back from the other room. He set a largish leather pouch on the table with a solid sounding thump.

"It's tradition for a warrior to receive a gift from his master after his first victory," Sennet commented mildly.

"When the Sword Master gives you a rest day, take this and have Sean show you around town. Go down to the horse markets if you like. There's plenty of room in my stable for any beast you buy. Find a mare worth breeding, and you can have stud service from any of my stallions."

Sennet was giving him a sly smile.

"Now go on. I want to get on with my business."

And with that Viggo was dismissed. As he stood and left the room with Sennet's gift, he could hear the man chuckling behind him.


	7. Closing

Sennet was drunk. Screaming, stinking drunk. And Rodin had gotten him that way. That was why Rodin was his best friend. Sennet loved Rodin.

Who was currently walking next to him, supporting him with an arm around the shoulder as they made their way inside from the terrace. They flopped onto couches and Rodin shoo-ed the servants away. Sennet loved Rodin.

And Sennet had a problem and Rodin was going to help him fix it.

"You know how the Emperor is. He gets bored so easily. The only reason I've lasted this long is because they are so exotic and lovely and gorgeous when they win."

Rodin chuckled at that. Well, more giggled. They had been drinking. A lot.

"I heard," Rodin confided in a mock whisper, "That the Emperor said he was sending his youngest daughter to your barracks to get him a proper grandchild!"

That set Sennet off giggling. "Gods, can you imagine if she got a child off one of them?! I don't know if I'd be his new favorite or a dead man." He giggled more. So did Rodin. What had they been talking about?

Rodin gave him a sly look. "Well, I've heard you don't have to worry about that anyway. Viggo doesn't lay with women in the night, is what I've heard. And Sean used to, but doesn't anymore. It's a bit of a scandal in our circles, actually, to have the two best studs in the pasture mounting each other."

"No," Sennet shook his head. The room spun. "They aren't lovers. The Weapons Master is certain."

"The Weapons Master thought Viggo was a mute, too, as I recall," Rodin retorted.

Sennet shook his head even more emphatically. "NO! Maris used to say they weren't. He would have known, with the room right next to their's."

Sennet tried to remember what they had been talking about.

"Stop distracting me!" he wheezed. "If they don't stop winning soon, that madman is going to kill me, Golden Slaves or no." He gurgled a few residual giggles.

"So retire them!" Rodin said, like it was the most obvious answer in the world.

"Can't," Sennet should his head. "They've been winning for two years running. I don't have the kind of cash I would need to pay them off if I retire them." The thought made Sennet sad. But it was true. They had made him very wealthy, and they deserved their portion if they retired, but who ever heard of an arena slave retiring? They never survived more than a year or so, and they died in the ring like good little slaves, and nobody ever had to pay out. Sennet shook his head again.

Rodin was thoughtful.

"Well," he said finally, "Why don't you sell one of them to me."

"Can't," Sennet said. "You know the first thing the madman would do is have them fight each other."

"So, let him. We'll bet on both sides, and win either way," Rodin said easily.

"No!" Sennet said. "You don't understand!" He groped in his alcohol-soaked brain for a way to explain what would happen.

"See, it's like this. I think that if somebody told Viggo he had to fight Sean, he wouldn't fight."

"Perfect!" Rodin replied, "Then we bet on Sean and we _really_ clean up!"

Sennet shook his head so vigorously the room began to spin again.

"No! I mean, he wouldn't fight, as in, he would go out into the arena and lay down his weapon. I think he would rather go to the beasts than face Sean across sword points. And of course, Sean would never just execute Viggo, so he would probably lay down his weapon, too."

"Can you imagine where we would be if the Golden Slaves both went to the beasts? The entire city would hate us. We wouldn't be able to leave the house for weeks for fear of being stoned. Gods, the madman himself might have _us_ sent to the beasts."

Rodin looked thoughtful.

"Well, then, you can't sell one. 'Cause the first thing the madman would do is have them fight each other."

"They can't keep winning," Sennet moaned.

"Well," said Rodin sagely, "Then they have to lose."

"They never lose!" Sennet replied. In his drunken state he couldn't decide whether to be proud or terrified.

"We could be sure they do," Rodin replied.

The look on his face sent a shiver up Sennet's spine.


	8. Last

Viggo woke at the sound of the gentle knock. The Master always woke them well before dawn on a day they fought. He grunted his acknowledgement and heard quiet footsteps fade away down the corridor.

When their door had opened, everything had changed for Viggo. There had been some early anger in the barracks over his trick. The Master had been particularly insulted. But that had faded quickly. He had found a mare in the market. She and her new colt were in the barn now, as well as a pair of geldings that were a joy to ride. He and Sean often did, which drew attention around the city, but he and Sean were too well known to escape, now. And Sean didn't want to run, anyway. 

Viggo talked about it in the abstract as often as he dared. But Sean was adamant. He was certain that Sennet was only a few fights away from retiring them anyway, and there was so much to gain by staying.

So Viggo stayed. 

When their door had opened, Viggo had expected one of them would move to new quarters. But apparently it was the superstition of the barracks that once a slave started winning, everything was lucky. The barracks wisdom was that Viggo and Sean had won together. As they had lived together up to the day of the fight, as they had woken up together that first day in the same bed, they needed to continue to live together, waking up together, if they wanted to continue to win. Though Viggo had laughed it off, Sean had taken it very seriously, and here they were, still living in the same small cell where they had been locked in on Viggo's very first night in the barracks.

Sean, of course, had slept through the knock. Viggo loved that Sean was a heavy sleeper. It meant that Viggo almost always woke first. 

And waking up, these days, was one of the purest self-indulgences Viggo had ever allowed himself. They always ended up tangled together in the morning. At first, Viggo had thought he was the one doing it, but the second or third time it had happened, Sean had rolled away and rubbed his eyes sleepily.

"Sorry," he'd muttered, "I've always been a burrower." And that was all that was ever said about it.

This morning, Sean was half on top of him, breathing deeply against the crook of his neck, arm slung across his chest. Offering Viggo the most self-indulgent, if slightly masochistic, treat of all, a knee between his thighs, putting just the perfect, delicious pressure on Viggo's morning erection. Some mornings, he would tempt fate, and rock a little against Sean's dead weight.

But today he really needed to piss. 

He shoved at Sean and muttered in his ear, "The Master just knocked. Time to get up."

Instead of moving, Sean shifted against him, pinning him even more effectively to the bed.

"Not time to get up," he protested blearily, "Still dark." 

Viggo laughed and really shoved his friend, successfully squirming out from under him and clambering over him and off the bed.

"We fight today, sword brother," Viggo chuckled. "Plus, I have to piss. No cuddling for you."

All he got was a groan in reply. 

"Up!" he shouted, then laughed as he headed down the hall.

When he came back, Sean was on his hands and knees, retching into the chamberpot. He seemed to have come to the end of the crisis, though, and sat back on his heels, wiping at his face with trembling hands.

It sent Viggo running from the room. 

He found the Master seated before the fire in the dining room, eating the simple hot cereal he ate every moning before the day's training began.

"Master!" Viggo gasped, "You have to help him!"

* * *

"Poison," the old man said. They hadn't even gotten as far as Viggo and Sean's room. They were in the corridor, and the smell of sick was strong. Viggo thought maybe the Master had been able to tell by the smell.

They stepped into the room and Sean was sitting just where Viggo had left him. To Viggo's surprise, the old man went to his knees before the sick slave. He took Sean's face between his hands and stared at him for a long time. Sean's stillness under this examination disturbed Viggo so much that he couldn't stay. He went and stood in the hall.

* * *

"Can you hear me, boy?" The Master asked harshly.

Sean focused on him without too much difficulty and nodded. His head felt a little muzzy, like the rest of the world was far away, down a long tunnel. The Master's voice sounded distant, though Sean knew the old man was no more than an arm's length away.

"Sean," the old man repeated.

"I'm here, old man," Sean replied testily. "Some bastard poisoned me! I can't remember the last time I puked like that!" So odd. His own voice sounded far away, as well.

"Let's get you up, then. We need to get ready. You fight today."

"No we don't!" came Viggo's voice. Which sounded really far away. Then Sean realized that Viggo must have spoken from the corridor, as he was rounding the doorway now, clearly furious.

"Look at him! He can barely focus. You can't possibly expect him to fight like that!"

Viggo's anger made Sean laugh. And he did. Couldn't help himself. Viggo was looking at him like he was insane, and probably he was.

"It's too late to withdraw, Vig," Sean said, still laughing. "Sennet had until sunset yesterday to take us out of the fight. After that, the slave fights, or he goes to the beasts. So we fight today."

Viggo was staring at them, his mouth hanging open, as the Master nodded agreement with Sean's statement.

"Help me with him, you idiot barbarian!" The Master growled, struggling to help Sean to his feet. Viggo knelt beside them and they got Sean up and down the corridor to the dining room. Other men gathered around them sleepily, awakened by the noise Viggo was making in the corridor. They all watched Sean in concern as Viggo helped him to sit on one of the long benches. 

The Master brought the last night's bread and a cup of water. 

"Let's see if you can stand after you get some bread in your stomach," he said quietly. Sean ate dutifully, and for the moment seemed to be over the retching. Once he ate and drank, he stood again and took a few experimental steps around the room. 

"Better," Sean declared. "Except my vision's double and the whole room is rocking." His voice was slurred.

Viggo was near panic now, but the Master was chuckling to himself.

"They botched the job!" He laughed. He sounded almost gleeful.

"What are you laughing about, old man?! Has senility finally caught up with you? He can't fight like this. At this rate, we'll be lucky if he doesn't have to crawl out into the arena! There has to be some way to stop this!"

"Viggo, boy, listen to me," the old man said sternly. "The dose was too small. He's already getting over it. He'll walk onto the field of battle and he'll even be able to lift his sword. And let us not forget, _you_ fight with a sword today. And it's two on two. When was the last time you had any problem with two opponents? All Sean has to do is walk out onto the sand, then stay out of your way. Possibly practice a little self-defense, in the worst case."

Viggo just stared at him. Sean made his way back across the room. The Master was positively chortling now.

"You'll win anyway! Can you imagine? Wonderful!" He was beside himself. 

Sean wobbled a little, and Viggo caught him by the arm.

"Well?!" Viggo demanded.

"I feel drunk and hung-over," Sean said slowly, forming his words carefully, watching Viggo owlishly. "But I think I can make it, if the Master is right."

"It doesn't matter, anyway," the Master said, suddenly serious. "There's no way out for either of you today. You go to the arena, like any other fight day. You will face your enemies, and you will fight to the best of your abilities, and you will live or die. That's all."

Viggo shut his eyes and wished for the first time in a very long time that the nightmare would end.

* * *

The sun was hot as always. They walked across the sand to the roar of the crowd, though more slowly than usual. Sean was managing it passably. But as they came to the center of the large field, Viggo faltered, and almost stopped.

It wasn't going to be two on two today. It was one on one. The same arrangement as their first fight. The same rules. 

Sean was as good as dead.

"Come on Vig," Sean said. "Let's get it over with. You just have to be quick about it. I'll try not to get killed while you deal with your man."

Viggo stared at him.

"Sean?" It came out as a strangled croak. 

But Sean just smiled at him, turned on his heel, wobbled a little, and walked to his circle.

* * *

Sean concentrated on not weaving as he took up his position opposite Acilius. More bad luck. Acilius was good, and his partner, Clemens, facing Viggo in the ring beside them, was better. Sean tried to pull his scattered attention and delayed reactions together and concentrate. He had to hold out long enough against Acilius for Viggo to finish off Clemens. Then Viggo could handle Acilius easily and Sean could go home and sleep it off. He dreaded the headache he was going to have tomorrow.

He took up his stance and waited for the fight to commence.

* * *

Viggo knew Clemens. He knew his weaknesses. They had been watching Acilius and Clemens for some time, now, expecting to face them. Himself and Sean, Acilius and Clemens - the best pair of pairs in the city, Viggo had thought at the time, watching Clemens' skills with a blade with professional respect. 

Now all Viggo wanted to do was kill him. Quickly and efficiently.

And the damn man was evading all Viggo's best moves. It was taking too long. Because for the first time ever in this arena, the world had refused to narrow down to the two blades. His mind was wandering. He had to force himself not to look for Sean. He swung his blade nervously as he circled Clemens again.

Then he saw his opening and took it. 

Done. The deed was done. Clemens was bleeding out in the sand, and Viggo didn't have to divide his attention anymore.

Viggo whirled and leapt, and landed ready to fight in Sean's circle just in time to see Acilius' blade swoop under Sean's unsteady defenses. The blade came away bloody, and Viggo could only watch in shock as Sean sank to his knees, left hand pressed to his wound.

Then Acilius did something no arena slave of his experience should have done.

He failed to strike the killing blow. As he turned to face Viggo, Sean lunged to his feet. His sword took Acilius below the ribs. The blow was through the lung to the heart, and Acilius was dead before he hit the ground.

The crowd was screaming and stomping and chanting, and all Viggo could see was Sean, standing on unsteady legs, looking down at his left hand, and parts of himself that should never see the light of day.

Viggo ran and caught him before he could collapse.

The arena priest came to them. Placed the laurels on them. Gave them the gold that was the prize for the fight. And began the prayers for the dead.


	9. Mysteries of the Next Life, Part I

Viggo made them lay the bier on the table. The physician was waiting, despite the fact that this was a mortal wound. 

But Viggo was sure it didn't have to be. The physician had gut and needles. He had linen for bandages. He had alcohol to dull the pain. Viggo went to the table and took what he needed.

The physician saw the look in the slave's eyes, and wisely stepped aside. Viggo first worked with the alcohol and a clean cloth, trying to clear away all visible dirt and debris. He didn't have any hope of a real sterilization of the wound, but he hoped that something would be better than nothing. The physician hovered at the edges of Viggo's peripheral vision.

"Help me, or go away," Viggo growled. Sean had already lost consciousness. Viggo hoped it was from the residual effects of the poison combined with the pain, rather than blood loss.

"Barbarian," the physician said, catching Viggo by the wrist, "He has been opened. His innards are visible. You cannot stitch up a wound like this. His guts will rot, and he'll die in pain. The one instance I can remember when the rot didn't kill the man, he was never able to move on his own again. His friends slit his throat to put him out of his misery after less than a year."

Viggo stared hard at the hand restraining his wrist, and the physician released him. He went back to threading the needle.

"Don't do this to him," the physician pleaded.

"I know this can work," Viggo said quietly. "I just don't know if I can do it. Whatever practical advice you can offer would be appreciated. Otherwise, stay out of my way."

He began the sutures. He could see that several layers of tissue had been opened, and he was sure the key to doing this right was to reconnect each layer. It was going to take forever, he realized, as he tied off the third knot. How could they do this without Sean just bleeding to death under their hands?

The physician had been working around him, placing pressure on the wound, but he suddenly made a little grunting noise, followed by a surprised exclamation.

"I see!" He said, sounding amazed. "I see what you are trying to do." He peered closely at the tiny amount of work Viggo had managed. He made another little thinking sound.

"Your knots are good, but you're too slow. You'll never finish it." And to Viggo's surprise, the man shoved him aside, and plucked the needle and gut from his hands.

"Apply pressure to the wound. Make sure everything stays inside, but disturb it as little as possible."

"You!" The physician pointed imperiously at his apprentice, who came scurrying over. The two began a quick, methodical process, the physician tying, the boy cutting. Viggo cringed at how filthy their hands were, but under the circumstances, it hardly seemed to matter. Viggo held the bandages firmly in place and tried not to think about the physician's promise that Sean was going to rot from the inside out.

* * *

"Sean."

Someone was calling him.

Sean was burning, but he couldn't stay warm. He hurt. Right in the center of his being. Everything. Adrift in a sea of pain and cold fire.

"Sean," came the voice again. "I know it hurts, but you need to drink."

Viggo was talking to him. There was a cup of cold juice that felt wonderful in his mouth. Cool and sweet. He shivered.

As he drank, he slowly found his way to full wakefulness. He was in an open room, full of light, sitting on a large sleeping platform. He was leaning back against Viggo, who was supporting his head and holding the cup. Sean reached up weakly to try to take it himself. 

Bringing a startled cry from Viggo who promptly dumped most of the rest of the juice all over them.

"Sean?!" Viggo practically shouted in his ear. Gods, talk about a headache. Whoever had poisoned him was going to die, painfully and horribly, as soon as he recovered. It was so much worse than he had thought it would be. He had walked out into the arena on his own two feet, dammit, how could he be hurting this much now?

"What?!" He snapped back at Viggo irritably. He struggled to sit properly, but that brought a stabbing pain right through his belly, and he let himself flop back against his friend, who was irritatingly shifting out from under him at the very same moment, so he fell back awkwardly against the pillows. And if that didn't hurt. It actually brought tears to his eyes. 

"Sean, are you talking to me?!" Viggo asked. Sean couldn't understand the look on his friend's face. Viggo was touching his head, his cheeks, his eyes. Sean swatted at him again, annoyed at how weak he was.

"Stop it! What is wrong with you?! Of course I'm talking to you! Gods, what the hell did the bastards give me? I feel awful."

To Sean's surprise, he realized Viggo was laughing and crying at the same time.

* * *

Sean was in and out over the next several days, sometimes coherent and complaining, almost his usual self, other times limp and feverish. The physician had some ideas about how to care for the wound - poltices with honey and herbs - and to Viggo's grateful amazement, they actually seemed to be managing some semblance of good wound care. The gash seemed to be healing, and though it was clearly infected, the physician seemed happy. It wasn't oozing or generating any odor of decay. Sean was feverish, but after the first day or so, no longer delirious. They were able to get liquids and thin rice broths into him, and (to the physician's unseemly glee) _through_ him. After a week, the physician declared that the crisis was over.

"There's nothing more we need to do," he said as he packed the last of his few supplies. He grinned broadly at Viggo. "I don't know how we did it, but I think he's going to be fine."

* * *

There were two or three more truly miserable days after the doctor left. Sean was hurting and there wasn't a lot that could be done about it. 

Viggo spent one long day sitting propped against the head of the bed, singing to himself, letting his fingers play through the silky strands of Sean's hair. He had a pad of homemade paper by his knee, and he was thinking through long pieces of verse in his head. He spoke it aloud and for the first time in months he was listening to Spanish, English, the beautiful sing-song rhythms of his seagoing forefathers. He jotted phrases down as he went, hoping that at least some of it would make sense in a few days. How long had it been since he had time for this? 

Viggo was painting again, too. They were in one of the guest rooms of Sennet's house. The views from the windows were inspirational, though they weren't what Viggo painted. 

"That's not mountains and flowers," Sean commented from the bed.

"No," Viggo replied.

"Well, why do you keep stopping to look out the window, then?" Sean asked testily. Viggo could hear him shifting around in the bed behind him. He shrugged.

"It's a nice view," he answered simply. 

Sean snorted. He was restless and cranky and bored.

"I'm tired of watching you play in your raw egg paste. Let's go out."

Viggo turned to find Sean sitting on the edge of the platform, feet dangling, looking down at his healing wound thoughtfully.

"It looks terrible. You couldn't have done a better job than that?"

* * *

Sennet was very annoyed. Sean and Viggo were walking slowly through the garden outside his workroom. He glared at Rodin across the table.

"They are going to expect me to retire them, now, you realize. I don't have the gold on hand for that."

"What if you didn't retire them," Rodin answered. "You've got a lot invested in both of them, and there are acceptable roles for them outside the arena."

Sennet was interested. "For instance?"

"Well," Rodin said thoughtfully, "Viggo is an amazing swordsman. Tell him you are considering having him replace the Weapons Master, when he is too old to perform his duties."

"What about Sean?"

"I've been thinking about asking to take him off your hands, actually," Rodin replied. "The Emperor and the City have been asking more and more of my resources of late, and I've been thinking if I'm a man of power now, I should start acting like one. I'd like Sean to come over to my house and help me put a real guard in place. Something impressive enough to make the Emperor take notice, and formidable enough to keep Geta and Iestus guessing. Not to mention get Buteus off my back."

Sennet warmed to the idea quickly.

"It couldn't hurt me to strengthen my household defenses, either. I have a caravan to send this summer. I'd feel a lot better with a man like Viggo commanding it."

The men settled into a thoughtful silence.

"The problem is," Sennet said finally, "That even if I sell Sean to you, I must transfer his rightful portion of his winnings with him."

Rodin smiled - a cruel twist of lips and flash of teeth.

"Give Sean to me. I'll take care of it."

* * *

The night Sennet and Rodin were to join them for dinner, Sean was in excellent spirits. They had been all the way to the barn to see Viggo's horses for the second day in a row. He was in almost no pain, and tried to convince Viggo that they should take the geldings out for a ride. 

He was hungry and happy when they came back to the house, but he wasn't ready to give up the luxury of being a patient quite yet. Sean had been genuinely horrid while recovering, and Viggo had waited on him had and foot with delight. Sean thought maybe Viggo would like him to play the helpless role a few days more, as well.

He collapsed onto the bench at the foot of the bed, pretending to be a little breathless. He felt a little guilty over the instant concern in Viggo's eyes, and he gave his friend a tired, but hopefully reassuring smile.

"I think you should lie down for a while before we eat," Viggo scolded. "You should tell me if we're doing too much."

"No, no! I'm fine!" Sean protested, even as he let himself be hauled off the bench and bullied toward the bed. He lay down gingerly, pleased that he hardly hurt at all any more. And as he expected, Viggo circled around to the other side of the bed, and climbed in behind him. Sean smiled to himself, waiting for Viggo to prop himself against the headboard and stroke Sean's hair. Maybe sing a little, or talk to himself. Sean liked that - the long fingers in his hair as he tried to make sense of the mysterious strange words in Viggo's familiar voice.

But to Sean's surprise, Viggo lay down behind him, snug against his back, and wrapped a strong arm around his chest.

"Don't you play sick with me, slave, just to get a snuggle," Viggo whispered, the rough stubble of his day-old shave rasping against the shell of Sean's ear. "Burrow all you want, I could use a nap myself."

Sean wondered how Viggo could fall asleep so quickly, considering the heat and hardness pressed perfectly against Sean's backside.

* * *

"No," Viggo said quietly, drawing all eyes in the room to himself.

"The decision is not yours to make, Viggo," said Sennet warningly. "The deal is done. Sean goes with Rodin in the morning."

"No!" Viggo was on his feet now. Sean was distantly amused to see that both Rodin and Sennet flinched as the angry swordsman towered over them. "You owe him better than this! How can you continue to treat him as a piece of property, after everything he's done for you?"

"Viggo, stop," Sean commanded quietly. And now all eyes were on him. To his surprise, Viggo did stop. He stalked out in to the night garden. Sean could tell from the wide eyes of their two visitors that he wasn't the only one wondering if they would see Viggo again in the morning.

Sean stood and bowed to them.

"I'll be ready to leave in the morning, master," he said, bowing again to Rodin.

"Thank you, master," he said, bowing this time to Sennet, "for accepting my meager services all these years. I hope you found them of some worth."

Then he smiled at them both grimly. "And now, if you will excuse me, masters, my recent injury makes me easily tired. I have a long day ahead of me tomorrow."

Rodin was livid; so beside himself that for the moment he was speechless. Sennet stood stiftly and faced his former warrior eye to eye.

"You just be sure you're both here in the morning, slave. The Golden Slaves can't run," Sennet snarled. Then he turned and took Rodin hard by the shoulder, practically dragging his friend from the room before the scene could get any uglier than it already was.

* * *

"Come to bed, Viggo." Sean's voice was soft in the darkness. Viggo took a deep breath and tried to pull himself together.

"You realize that I've only stayed all this time because of you," Viggo said quietly.

"Well, then sleep with me one more night before you decide to leave," Sean replied. Viggo followed him back to the house.

* * *

Viggo woke to find Sean watching him in the grey, pre-dawn light. He thought maybe it was Sean's fingers in his hair that had awakened him.

"I think they aren't planning to retire us," Sean murmured, his voice barely loud enough for Viggo to hear, lying right next to him.

"They clearly aren't," Viggo responded in confusion. "They said as much last night."

"No," said Sean, shaking his head. "I mean, I think they don't plan to retire us _ever_. I think they expect you to die escorting this caravan, and if you do ever get back, you'll find that I'm dead, or gone."

Viggo sat up suddenly, staring down at Sean.

"They poisoned you," Viggo breathed. The logic of it hit him so hard, he couldn't believe they hadn't realized it before. "I'll kill them. Both. I'll kill them both."

"Viggo," Sean said softly. "They're right. The Golden Slaves can't run. And I'm not walking away from this life empty-handed. We have to find a way to leave this behind us. If you kill them and don't get caught and crucified, we just get handed down with their estates. Or resold at the next auction. We have to think this through. Don't do something in anger that we both will regret."

* * *

Viggo watched Sean leave for Rodin's house, wondering what, exactly, they could possibly do besides run.


	10. Mysteries of the Next Life, Part II

The attempt on his life was simple and direct and probably should have succeeded. 

Viggo almost felt sorry for the poor man. He crept up on him as Viggo lay wrapped in his blankets under the stars. But Viggo was a light sleeper and the horse whinnied. Viggo killed the man with his own knife. As he moved his blankets away from the body and lay back down to sleep, he took a moment to be grateful that they hadn't thought to poison him.

* * *

Despite the fact that Viggo was terrified of what he was going to find when he returned, the caravan was easily the most incredible experience of his life. Miles and miles on horseback. Strange mountains and plains and people. The whole excursion under his command. It was unlike anything he had ever done.

He was good at it, too. Sennet had given him the task only two weeks before they departed, but Viggo had spent the time pouring over maps and talking to people who had done this trip many times, and he had made a few unusual choices about their route. The decisions had paid off in time, and Viggo had brought the caravan to its destination almost six weeks ahead of schedule. 

Now, he was looking down over the city almost two months earlier than Sennet expected him to return. The wealth he escorted was completely intact and unscathed. Viggo was actually quite pleased with himself. He'd have to find a way to do this for himself one day. He was sure they had tripled Sennet's investment. It was mind-boggling.

* * *

He studied the Weapons Master's face intently.

"Well?"

"He's dead."

Viggo sat hard on the bench by the practice ring where two new slaves were sparring.

"He knew it was going to happen," Viggo whispered. "How?"

"Rodin found Sean in his wife's quarters. Rodin's wife accused Sean of making advances on her person. Rodin killed him. It was about a month after you left."  
Viggo squeezed his eyes shut against the tears. Eight months ago.

"It was my understanding that you were going to die on this trip as well," the Weapons Master continued.

Viggo laughed harshly. 

"They shouldn't have botched the job."

* * *

Rodin sat in the light of his fire, his favorite dogs drowsing at his feet. 

"I've come about Sean."

The poor beasts yelped and scrambled up at the sound of the soft voice. They growled and snarled and went for the intruder as they had been trained to do. Rodin had been startled as well, but the beasts would protect him, and the racing of his heartbeat was already calming as he turned to watch his animals rip the man to shreds.

Viggo kicked one animal so hard in the jaw it's neck snapped. He slit the other beast's throat neatly and suddenly there was nothing between Rodin and a sudden death. As his lungs filled with blood, the last thing he saw was Viggo smiling grimly through his tears.

* * *

Viggo joined Sennet for breakfast. They ate quietly in the bright warm morning light of Sennet's workroom.

Sennet broke the silence first.

"Rodin has disappeared," he said.

Viggo said nothing.

"The City guard thinks he was probably murdered. He went to his rooms two nights ago, and yesterday morning his wife found the bodies of his two dogs dead on the carpet by the fire. But Rodin's gone. Not a drop of blood anywhere. And every thing of value in his room taken."

Sennet shook his head.

"I always warned him he should use a treasury, rather than sleep in that pile of gold. The widow hasn't got two pieces of silver to jingle in her purse. The estate's well run, though. I'm sure she'll be fine."

Viggo continued to show not the slightest interest. 

"That's an exaggeration, surely. Rodin cared too much about his money to leave it lying around for thieves."

"I think you know very well it isn't," Sennet replied. "How did you do it, Viggo? It was a tidy piece of work. Nasty, too."

Viggo said nothing.

"I think you heard Sean was dead, killed the man who murdered him, and while you were at it, helped yourself to everything you could carry and hid it somewhere toward the day you run. All within a day of returning to the city."

Viggo watched him with a look of bland disinterest. Sennet suppressed a shudder. He had never gotten used to those pale eyes. Even Sean's cat-green ones had been better.

"I think we've discovered a very marketable skill here," Sennet continued.

At that, Viggo laughed. "I'm done killing for you," he answered.

"Then do it for Sean," Sennet replied turning his attention back to the meal. "Rumor has it that Rodin didn't really kill him."

"What?" 

Sennet's eyes snapped back up from his meal at the growl. Viggo's calm demeanor was gone. 

"The rumor is that Rodin didn't actually kill him. That he thought the better revenge for the insult to his wife was to strip him of his honor and sell him. That sounds like Rodin to me. He would never have passed up an opportunity to make a profit, just because of some insult to his wife."

"Where is he?" Viggo hissed.

Sennet eyed his dangerous breakfast companion warily.

"I don't know. I don't even know if the rumors are true. But I think you could find out, if you moved in the right circles," Sennet said. "I think if I let it be known in through the right channels that the assassin who killed Rodin so neatly was available for other jobs, you could stay very busy. We'd split your earnings fifty-fifty. And you could interrogate every man of power before you slit his throat and added to your treasury."

"What makes you think any of these people would know anything about where Sean is? You said Rodin would strip him of his honor. He surely isn't working in any great house in this city."

"The rumor is Rodin sold him as a whore. I think he's their new favorite treat. And I think if you talk to enough of them, you'll find one who knows exactly where you can find him."


	11. Initiate

She had brought the slave sight unseen as a favor to her old friend, Rodin. Now, as her guards brought Sean to her apartments, she was pleased to see that, true to form, Rodin had asked a favor that would benefit her for years. He was an unusual specimen for any house, and his reputation from the arena would bring visitors for weeks just for the novelty of having such an accomplished warrior in their bed. To her experienced eye, it was clear that Sean would have a busy regular clientele almost right away.

But first she had to settle him in. Sean was a mess. His face was bruised and he had a newly bloodied lip. She looked hard at the men holding him. 

"You know better than to hit him in the face," she said coldly.

"Mistress, I have never seen a slave fight like this one did. If it weren't for the bindings on his body, I would say you hadn't bought a bed slave at all," the guard replied angrily.

She took a rag from her worktable and walked around the room to them. She knelt so that she could look her newest acquisition in the eye, as she gently dabbed at the cut on Sean's lip. He was angry. Furious. And from his build, still as dangerous as his reputation made him. He was going to be tricky, but she had been in this business a long time.

"Sean," she said quietly, " Rodin sold you to me to punish you. He says you are a traitor, a man without honor, unworthy to hold a sword, or to fight brave honest men. He says you are a whore and should be treated as one and he has sold you to me. I am your mistress now, and this is your home, and you are a whore."

"But you should also know that among whores, I have as good a reputation as a mistress as Sennet has among the arena slaves." She noted the flicker of surprise on his face and smiled. "I make a good life for the slaves who live and work in this house. And I would like to extend that life to you, if you will take it."

She stood and crossed the room to her cabinets. She took down a carved box and brought it back to work table. 

"I don't fear the areana," Sean said. "I would rather be sent back there as a murderer, than stay here. You try to turn me into a courtesan, and I'll break the neck of the first man you send to my bed."

She found what she was looking for in the box. A broad, aggressive set of bindings that she had thought she would never use. Copper and gold. Hideous, but somehow suited to him. She brought them out. As she turned back to him, Sean saw what they were and began to struggle again.

"No!" He snarled, twisting and fighting. But the guards had the advantage of leverage, and there was nowhere for Sean to go. With her belt knife, she cut the leather thong around his right upper arm, and replaced it with the first band. Perfect fit. The lock snicked into place with a soft snap. Sean hissed and cursed at her. She cut the thong from his left wrist and replaced it with the bracelet. As she knelt she saw that one of the guards had placed a booted foot firmly over Sean's right ankle. She cut the thong on this thigh and replaced it with the largest band. Not quite as good a fit. She might have to bring in a goldsmith for that. Then anklet on the left ankle. He swore softly.

When she was done she stood before him again. "Sean," she said seriously, "If you killed any of the men who came here, I guarantee you that you wouldn't spend the next two or three years living the hero's life back at the arena. They would make sure your punishment was swift and painful and an example to slaves who think they can kill powerful men with impunity."

Sean shrugged and looked up from below lowered brows with what she could see could easily become an infuriating impudence. "I know what they do with slaves who murder these men," he said quietly. "And it's a better fate than being a bed warmer for them."

She sighed and walked back over to her seat by the window. "Sean," she replied sternly, "you have to understand. No body as beautiful as yours is going to go wasted in a place like this. I can easily see to it that you don't harm anyone. And there are plenty of men who come here who would be delighted to have you bound and helpless and completely against your will. You will be everything a noble, but conquered warrior should be. I might even have suggested it myself, just as a game. But they'll like it better if it's real. Trust me."

She looked at him. Defiant. Angry. Yes, they would make a lot of money, the two of them. She nodded to the guards who lifted him to his feet and led him forcefully away to the chambers she had prepared for him.


	12. Blood Wash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for rape in this chapter.

Sean had fought for weeks. It meant that every night the house guards arrived with his first patron. They would tackle him and strip him with rough, hard hands, then bind him as his patron directed. 

As it went on and on, night after night, he couldn't deny that his mistress had been right. He wasn't doing himself any favors by fighting. The men who came to him enjoyed watching him tamed and subjugated. He kept thinking about what she had said about the conquered warrior.

So he just stopped fighting. He still didn't cooperate. The guards stripped him and bound him in a kind of evening ritual. But it clearly took away the thrill for quite a few of his regular patrons. Certain men stopped asking for him.

But he didn't have fewer visitors, just different ones.

* * *

His mistress came to see him not long after. He was practicing when she arrived. He had practiced as best he could since he had come here. They never let him leave his chambers, but the room was large enough for him to lunge and thrust and practice his footwork. He worked to keep the strength in his arms with arm balances and push-ups and other exercises he had learned over the years. In his mind he always fought Viggo, remembering vividly his friend's surprising, twisting lunges and flawless blade work.

"I'd like to make your life better," she said quietly. Sean didn't break his rhythm, continuing the dodge and weave of the practice exercises.

"I know you are not going to cooperate with the patrons," she continued, not put off in the slightest. "But I'd like to get my men-at-arms out of your quarters. If we could come to an agreement that she would be safe, I could send Zara to you before your patrons come. She could see to binding you." 

Sean paused in mid-stroke and considered.

* * *

When he had first come to The Laurel, all his patrons had been the same to him. He had hated them all with equal passion and one cock up his ass had been the same as another.

But he had been doing this for months now, and he knew they were different, though he also despised himself as a whore for having learned and accepted the differences. The first thing he had realized was that some were gentle and some were rough. After months of sometimes three lovers a night, he had come to appreciate the patrons who were careful. 

Then some were almost like suitors, half in love with him, and while they were pathetic idiots, he had trouble truly hating them. 

The only ones he really hated anymore were the ones that came to his chambers to humiliate him.

* * *

Ursus seemed to take it as a personal insult that Sean never climaxed when Ursus fucked him. They had to gag Sean before he could be in the same room with his patrons, but if he could have discussed it with Ursus civilly, he would have pointed out that it was the rare slave in the house that really enjoyed sex with them. And besides, on principle, Sean refused to let himself find even the least pleasure in the experience. He felt less a whore if each encounter was against his will and an ordeal to be endured. 

Ursus _wanted_ Sean's cum. He tried seducing him. Licking and nibbling at all the right places. Nuzzling Sean's limp cock, breathing against him warmly, suckling him despite his obvious lack of arousal.

Then he tried a different tack. He would stretch Sean and oil him, then work Sean with his fingers, long and thoroughly, cleverly manipulating Sean from within, following up with long, sweet, liquid strokes of his cock. Sean couldn't stop the heat that would build and spread up from the root of his spine, til his fingers tingled and his face flushed. 

The first time he brought Sean off, Ursus crowed in triumph, and rode him roughly to his own completion. 

"So it can be done!" He gasped in breathless delight, as he rolled off Sean's back into the soft piles of quilts and pillows. "Oh! The feel of you, clenching on me! Nothing is better than feeling another man's ass pulsing around your dick! You loved it!" He left Sean as he was, helpless to so much as shift out of the disgusting damp spot under him. He dressed and went striding back out into the house as if he had just beaten the odds in the arena and the emperor himself had been in attendance.

Sean hated him more and more with each visit.

* * *

Micon was an artist, with skills much like Viggo's. He could capture life in line on a piece of parchment or canvas in a way that sometimes almost frightened Sean.

He entered the room alone. He was no nonsense tonight, making Sean hopeful that really all he wanted was a quick fuck. 

"You're looking lovely, as always." He murmured as he took Sean by the hips and lifted him up to take the first thrust. "I don't know how you manage it. They tell me that you haven't been outside this room since they brought you here. But you still look like a warrior, just out of the arena. It's the most amazing thing. Poetry in line and plane and muscle." Sean's hopes of a quick end to the session were dashed. Once Micon started talking it was always a long night.

When he had sated himself, he stepped back from the bed and surveyed Sean and his setting with a critical eye. 

Often, at this point in a session, Micon would bring in the house guards to arrange his subject. Sean's arms and legs would be positioned just so. Then the bed clothes would be draped to hide the bindings. Or sometimes not. And sometimes the guard would be commanded to stay. Or one of the girls brought in. Or one of the boys. 

Then the bastard would draw him. Or them. Capturing the grace of limb; the flow of cloth; the joining of bodies; the ecstasy on the guard's face; the killing anger in Sean's eyes.

Micon would always show the drawings to Sean afterwards.

Sometimes Micon drew a lie. Taking away the gag, and drawing languid, drowsy contentment on Sean's face. But almost always he drew the truth. The anxious tension of Sean's muscles, and the searing hatred for the artist. The edges of the parchment should have been curling and blackening with it.

Tonight, it seemed that Sean was fine as he was. Starkly bound by four points to the carved bed, spread out on the red covers. Micon moved to drape a white cloth across Sean's midriff, hiding nothing. Sean hoped the man had only paid for the night. Sometimes Micon would stay into the day, if he was feeling inspired. The drawing was like foreplay to him, and when he had done a series of renderings that particularly pleased him, he would use Sean's awkwardly bound body so roughly that Sean often couldn't accommodate a patron the next evening.

The drawings that night were perfect. 

Sean hated Micon even more than Ursus.

* * *

Viggo couldn't imagine why Sennet would be providing his services to a man like Micon. But Sennet's instructions had been clear. Viggo was to make his way by stealth into the estate and meet Micon in his private chambers. Maps had been provided. Viggo was to learn the details of Micon's business, and begin a plan for carrying out his instructions. Apparently Sennet and Micon had already agreed upon a price.

Viggo slipped in off the balcony into a well-lit sleeping chamber. He was surprised to see that the walls of the room were covered with drawings. The most realistic drawings Viggo had seen since he came to this place. The artist was certainly ahead of his time and his culture. 

Intrigued, Viggo began studying the pieces. There were many, some hardly more than sketches. Others serious studies.

Then he came to Sean. 

Viggo had not seen Sean in almost two years. He had, in fact, nearly resigned himself to never seeing Sean again. Since he had started this work for Sennet over a year ago, no one had been able to tell him anything about his friend. He had started to believe that the story about the rumors of Sean's sale had just been a manipulation by Sennet, and in the last month or so had started to idly consider killing Sennet, taking his "earnings" and going to find some place to live quietly and mourn Sean in peace. 

But here Sean was, clearly this artist's regular model. He looked healthy and fit. Wherever he was, they were looking after him. But Viggo was shocked at the expression the artist had captured on his friend's face. Hatred. Pure. Unadulturated. And Sean was bound in every piece. There were a few renderings showing Sean basking in what appeared to be a relaxed afterglow, but those struck Viggo as false. The artist was very good. But he hadn't caught Sean's mouth at all, and his nose wasn't right, and the beautiful crinkle of Sean's eyes when he smiled was missing. Viggo thought the expression was probably from the artist's imagination, hiding the fact that Sean wouldn't smile for him at all.

"What do you think?" Came a soft voice from behind him. "He's the most amazing model I've ever had."

Viggo turned to greet his host with an appropriate bow of his head. "He doesn't look very happy to sit for you." Viggo said, surprising himself with the calm in his voice and the cold knowledge of what he was about to do.

Micon shrugged. "He's a slave at the Laurel. I pay well for his services." Viggo's eyes drifted again to a drawing where Sean's face was hidden, and the soldier above him was clearly in the throes of orgasm. 

In one fluid movement, Viggo turned and drew his long knife. His host didn't even have time to look startled before the blade was thrust under his ribs and pierced his heart. His last screams drowned to a mere gurgle as his lungs filled with blood. Viggo twisted and yanked the blade free and Micon fell into a heap at Viggo's feet. Viggo began swiftly removing all the drawings of Sean from the walls. Then, in a last moment of twisted inspiration, Viggo stripped off Micon's clothing, mopping up as much blood from the floor as possible, then wrapping the sodden, dripping cloth in the thick embroidered bed cover and disappearing back out into the moonless night.

* * *

His mistress brought him the portrait herself. She had, of course, opened it when it had been delivered to the door. Now she handed it to Sean, watching his face intently. 

It was a drawing Micon had done of him, months ago. Possibly one of the very first ones. But it was unlike any work he had ever seen Micon do. It was washed and tinted, in a pigment he immediately recognized as the color of spilt blood. Curiously, he brought the piece towards his face. Yes, it _was_ blood. And fresh. Sean lowered the drawing and stared at it. It was repulsive, a beautiful rendering of the biggest and stupidest of the house guards, in full uniform, taking Sean for his pleasure, and of himself, naked and bound and helpless. The whole thing drenched in blood. 

Sean was about to let it fall to the floor when his mistress said, "There's a mark on the back, and a message."

Turning the page over, he saw the message. Written in Viggo's clear hand, in the outlandish writing that Viggo had taught him so that Sean could read Viggo's odd poetry.

But this wasn't poetry. 

"He's dead. A poor gift, but the only one I can give you. I’ve been looking for you since I got back, and had given you up for dead. But I know where you are now, and that is something."

It was signed with Viggo's distinctive mark. The one tattooed on his shoulder. And below the mark, in typical Viggo fashion, the further message, "The guard is as good as dead." 

Sean turned the piece over, looked at the blood tinted face of the guard, and smiled a cruel, bitter smile. He turned the page over again, ripped out Viggo's mark, and cast the rest into the fire.

He showed the mark to his mistress. For the first time in his residence in her house, he bowed to her respectfully, as a slave should do. He handed the scrap to her.

"My lady," he said, "I would like to have this done in ink on my body. Will you allow it?"

She gave him her most brilliant smile. The one she reserved for her best customers - many of whom were Sean's most frequent patrons.

"I know just the artist for the job," she said brightly. "I'll arrange it for this afternoon."

Sean bowed his thanks deeply, and she fairly skipped from the room. Sean sat looking at the small bright fire on his hearth and felt happy for the first time in months.


	13. Sword Practice, Part I

When Zara woke him up he groaned. 

"You have a patron," she chirped, mercilessly cheerful. Especially considering the hour and the fact that he hadn't even had breakfast yet.

An early morning patron was the worst. Possibly because he always half expected it to be Micon with his parchment.

Zara built up the fire on his hearth and he tried to fall back asleep while he waited for her. She looked back over her shoulder at him and grinned. 

"Out of the bed!" she ordered.

"No. Not at this hour," he protested.

"Come on," she said, "I don't think you'll mind when you see him."

He reluctantly pushed back the bedclothes and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He returned her smile with a scowl.

"I doubt it. Who?" He knelt as she finished with the fire and came to him with the thongs. He bowed his forehead to the stone floor and shivered in the cool morning air. She bound him as efficiently as she always did. He had long given up testing the knots. First his wrists across his back, then his ankles. She laughed softly. 

"No one I've ever seen before, but he has you for the whole day, and I think the night too, and the household is upside down making preparations. I can't remember when I've seen the mistress looking more pleased."

That got his attention. What could the household possibly be preparing for? Even if the man had Sean's services for a day and a night, Sean's "services" wouldn't take them outside this room. 

"Zara, what's going on?" 

But she just laughed and left him to his patron.

The door opened and the man came in and shut the door behind him. He seemed to pause uncertainly. Sean recognized it as the behavior of a man new to the use of a pleasure slave. Well, he could figure it out for himself. It wasn't that difficult. It was then that Sean realized that Zara hadn't gagged him. He almost snorted in disgust. Well, maybe he would get a chance to bite him and get some payback for being rousted out of bed at that godawful time of day…

The man moved suddenly from behind Sean and stood in front of him. He laid an object on the floor between them.

"I've brought you a better gift," said a voice from another life. Two years' discipline left him in a heartbeat and Sean sat back on his heels. On the floor before him was a practice sword. Standing over him was Viggo.

* * *

"I've found him," Viggo announced over breakfast about a week after Micon's death. He had taken a few days to think about what to do, and he still hadn't come to a conclusion.

Sennet looked up at him.

"Who?"

"Sean is at the Laurel."

Sennet went very still.

"I'm glad," he said, finally. "I was starting to think that the rumors I'd heard had been just that – rumors."

"I need to see him, Sennet."

"The Laurel's a little out of your league, Viggo. Gods, the Laurel's out of _my_ league, I'd imagine."

"No, it's not. Don't pretend I don't know how much money I've made you in this assassination business over the last year. I know how much _I've_ made, and I know you haven't been giving me my full half."

"Fine," Sennet said, "You can have until tomorrow morning for your personal business. Off you go." 

"A slave can't get into one of those houses on his own. I'll need your sponsorship."

Sennet huffed in irritation. 

"Alright," he growled. "Tomorrow, then. I have things to get done today."

"But you realize that this isn't going to bring Sean back to you. You have to pay for him now, and if he's at the Laurel, you can't afford him." 

The look on Viggo's face as he stood from the table made Sennet very uneasy.

* * *

The house was massive. Viggo and Sennet were escorted to a suite of cozy rooms on the southeast side of the house. The dawn sun was just lighting the space with a rose-colored light. Laurel, the mistress of the house, looking fresh from her bath, rose to meet them gracefully, offering them comfortable seats and breakfast.

"I know who you are!" Laurel said, turning to Viggo. "You are Sean's partner from the arena!" Viggo saw his own surprise reflected in Sennet's face. She laughed a light musical laugh.

"Oh, I make it my business to know as much as I can about a man as important to my house as Sean! It's why I am seeing you personally, actually, instead of letting the day girl see to your needs. I'm so honored to meet you!" Laurel bowed a little to Viggo before taking her own seat."

"Now how can I serve you both today? The day girl said you were asking to see Sean."

Sennet reached for bread from the table, and the maid attending them came forward to poor cider into a cup at his elbow. 

"I offered Viggo a token of my appreciation for his recent work, and as a reward he named a day and a night with his old friend." Sennet smiled at Viggo indulgently, but Viggo saw beyond the condescension to the anger just under the surface. "He wants to practice with his sword brother again, if you will allow it. Maybe go riding. Eat and drink with him. Remember old times."

Sennet paused to sample cider and fruit, and Viggo found that the house mistress was not looking at the speaker, but was watching himself closely.

"Will you vouch for his behavior, if I let him hold a sword?" 

Viggo shook his head. "My lady," he said carefully, "Sean is my friend, but I haven't seen him since he entered your house. I cannot and will not speak for him."

Laurel looked thoughtful for a moment. 

"I'll be honest with you," she said. "Sean has not let himself be happy here. I have tried to help him settle in to this life, but he has refused. I send him an adorable, sweet-faced girl every day, and he won't touch her. He won't take gifts from his wealthy patrons. He can't even be trusted to see them with his mouth unbound, much less his hands. I would let him practice with the house guards, but he despises them and I believe that he'd find a way to kill two or three of them, even with a wooden practice sword."

Another thoughtful pause. Then she smiled, as if she had decided something.

"I want to do this for him. The entire house will be at your disposal. I'm afraid I can't let you leave the grounds to ride, as I certainly wouldn't trust him to come back. But I will let you bring in your practice swords, and whatever other items and gifts you think he would like, and he can keep them, of course."

Laurel looked earnestly at Viggo, "Make him happy for me, Viggo. Convince him that he should accept this life. That he doesn't need to be ashamed of letting himself live well. I can make a lot of money with him miserable. I _have_ made a lot of money with him miserable. But I have never wanted to run a house that was a torment for my slaves. I'd much rather make a lot of money with him happy."

* * *

Viggo followed the steward up the stairs to a narrow corridor running down the middle of the upper floor. A young woman emerged from one of the doors on the hall.

"Is he ready?" the steward asked her. 

She nodded and smiled brightly at Viggo. "Let me know if you need me," she offered with a cheeky wink, then practically bounced back down the same stairs they had just come up.

The steward saw him to the door, then left him alone.

Viggo took a deep breath and went in.


	14. Sword Practice, Part II

Every time Viggo thought he had come to terms with the reality of being an object - something owned for another's use - he would learn something new and realize that he was never ready for the shock around the next corner.

Before throwing them in the fire at last, Viggo had studied Micon's drawings of Sean for days, trying to learn all he could about his friend. So he had thought he was prepared to walk into the bedchamber of a pleasure slave. But art is not reality, and Viggo had to stop a moment inside the door to try to understand it all. 

A warm comfortable room. Spacious. With a table and chairs for eating. Upholstered couches. A small, hot hearth. A huge, carved bed. 

The overly small windows, barred. 

Aside from those windows, the room was appointed nearly as luxuriously as the rooms where they had met Laurel downstairs. Dark and rich where her rooms were light and airy. But places of comfort unlike anything Viggo had seen in this world.

Sean was waiting for him, bound naked and kneeling on the floor.

The steward had asked how Viggo preferred that Sean be bound. Viggo protested, but the man insisted that Sean couldn't be trusted. So Viggo had asked that they make it as easy as possible for Viggo to let him loose, and asked that they do the best they could to _not_ bind Sean for sex. The steward had been unimpressed by these instructions, but then, Viggo had dragged the man out of bed and turned his household upside down, so really Viggo could hardly blame him.

Now, seeing his friend, Viggo was almost afraid to go forward with his plan. Sean would be shamed to be seen like this. Or maybe Viggo was shamed, seeing Sean like this. Already, his body was reacting with a lust that Viggo had been able to control around Sean for years, now. But he was out of practice, and Sean naked, with those damned cuffs and bands...

Viggo tried to shake off the feeling. The best thing to do was to get them both out of this room.

He walked around in front of his friend and laid the practice sword on the floor. "I've brought you a better gift," he said quietly.

Sean sat back quickly on his heels, and Viggo looked into his friend's face for the first time in so long. The shock there didn't go away when Sean recognized the practice blade on the floor. 

When Sean didn't do anything but stare at him, Viggo started to doubt again. He walked around behind his friend and knelt to untie his hands. The knots had been done so that Sean could have freed himself. Viggo supposed that Sean hadn't noticed. He nudged Sean on the shoulder. "Let me get to your feet," he said. Sean rocked up onto his hands and knees and then he was free. Viggo stood quickly. He wasn't suicidal. If Sean was going to try to kill him, he wanted to be on his feet to defend himself.

Sean stayed on the floor a long moment, staring at the dull weapon on the stone, then looking up at Viggo in confusion. Then he was suddenly on his feet, laughing, and Viggo was crushed helplessly in an exuberant embrace.

Finally, Sean pushed him away, holding Viggo by the shoulders, beaming in delight.

"Look at you! What are you doing here?! How did you get them to let you in with a sword?" He paused for breath and realized that Viggo wore his own weapon on his back. "Two swords?" Sean shouted. Then laughed again. He turned away, leaving Viggo a bit unsteady and disoriented. Sean scooped up the practice weapon from the floor and faced Viggo across the blade, his grin completely maniacal.

Viggo swept his weapon out of the shabby sheath on his back almost by reflex, though he found he was laughing so hard he probably wouldn't be able to fend off an attack by the old lady who sold him peaches in the market.

"NO!" Viggo laughed, "Not here! They've set something up for us on the grounds!" But Sean leaped at him and Viggo parried as they danced around the room, swords ringing, the scuffle of Viggo's booted feet loud on the stone floors.

"No! Come on!" Viggo protested again. "Get dressed and we'll go out where we can do this properly!"

Sean broke of his attack and went to a chest in the corner.

"Wait," Viggo said. Sean turned and Viggo pointed to the bundle he had dropped just inside the door. Sean went over and opened the simple bag to find clothes. Viggo's clothes. Long leather pants. A loose shirt. Leather vest. Boots. Good clothes to fend off the dull heavy blades. All well worn and perfect for practice. When Sean turned to look at Viggo again, the amazement was back.

"How did you manage this?" He asked, repeating his first question.

Viggo shrugged. "Sennet wanted to give me a special gift. I asked for 24 hours of your valuable time."

Sean just stared at him. "I don't know exactly what people pay for my time here," he said slowly, "but I think you've probably passed up on a small fortune in silver." Suddenly he was grinning again, pulling the clothes over his bare limbs, hiding the bands that denoted his servitude. When he stood again and took up the practice sword, he very nearly renewed his attack. Viggo saw it coming, and stepped in close, gripping Sean's right wrist firmly. 

"Save it! You'll need all you've got to fight me, and they've set up something much better for us outside." Viggo went and opened the door for him. With a sly little smile, Sean stepped out into the hall.

Their walk through the house seemed to delight Sean. Every single guard did a double-take, then watched Sean him warily as he passed by them, many even going to far as to lay their hands on their sword hilts. Viggo imagined many of them had good reason to be afraid. But Sean just smiled a particularly cruel little smile and let Viggo lead him out a side door.

The Laurel had a large stable on the grounds, to care for the animals of the patrons, as well as to house Laurel's own stock. A paddock behind had been held for them. The sand was soft and well raked for the horses, completely clear of rocks and other debris. The perfect place for sparring. A small crowd had gathered, and to their surprise, the mistress stood amongst her men-at-arms and stable hands, chatting quietly like the gracious hostess at an elegant evening soiree. 

Sean chuckled. "Some of them are about to get the fright of their lives," he muttered to Viggo out of the side of his mouth. Viggo laughed, and now found himself following Sean, who quickened his step, suddenly in an even bigger hurry to start, it seemed. 

Sean stopped before his mistress and bowed to her deeply, in the manner of a slave entering the arena, then ducked under the slats of the fence and waited for Viggo. Viggo also bowed to her, and followed his friend inside.

They knew each other well enough to dispense with the usual, cautious dodging and weaving that strangers used to appraise each other's skill in a first duel. Sean's first attack was blistering and savage. He drove Viggo back across the paddock, until Viggo dodged and twisted, finally stepping in behind Sean's attack and shoving his friend to the ground. Sean's laughter as he leapt back to his feet was infections and Viggo found himself cackling in response, ready now for the next attack, and moving to defend himself properly. 

Viggo was surprised to find that Sean had become a different swordsman since they had last practiced together. Clearly, Sean's life in this place had taken a toll. He was already breathing too hard, and Viggo was sure that Sean was finding the practice sword surprisingly heavy. But even after only a few minutes in the paddock with him, it was clear to Viggo that Sean's strategies of attack and his footwork were remarkably different, and much harder to defend. Viggo was reminded of his other life, back in Wellington, when he had first begun to learn these things with Bob.

"What have you been doing?!" Viggo gasped, as Sean got in a particularly artful thrust, followed by a series of lunges that had Viggo moving back again.

Sean knew exactly what Viggo was asking. He looked smug and said nothing. Viggo laughed, and they fought like two men possessed.

* * *

Laurel watched the two men fight, and remembered how amazing they had been in the arena. She had gone more often a few years ago, and the two Outlanders, as they were often called, had been one reason to go. She had been there for their last fight, in fact. 

But it was clear from the reactions of her men-at-arms that most of them had not ever seen the two warriors fight, and there were murmurs of amazement and approval around the group. It did not go unremarked that Sean could leap into a fight like this, not having held a blade in over a year. Aulus, the chief of her household guard stood by her. 

"You're wasting his skills, you know, keeping him as a whore and not a swordsman," Aulus said quietly. 

She shook her head. "For a night in his bed, a patron pays enough silver for me to pay my personal bodyguard for a week," she replied. "I run a pleasure house, and I assure you, I am not wasting his talents."

But she watched Sean thoughtfully as the two men laughed and tested each other.

"At the very least, I would like you to consider letting him train with the men of the household guard. The benefit of his experience would give you one of the best trained personal armies in the city."

She laughed at that. "How many of them would he kill before he was done?" she asked pointedly.

Aulus shrugged. "If he would teach and you would allow it, I would happily dismiss every guard who ever insulted him."

Laurel continued to watch the fighters. But Aulus knew her too well. She wasn't seeing them anymore. She was running through the possibilities.

Suddenly she turned to go back up to the house. She caught the Steward's attention.

"Have clear water brought to them here, but when they are done, send them up to Sean's quarters to eat. Make sure the bath is free and there is plenty of hot water for them if they want to use it on the way up. I'll supervise their luncheon myself." And she swept away into the house.


	15. Water and Oil, Reprise

"Come on," said Viggo, "it's time to quit. Your arm's tired and you're breathing like a bellows!"

Sean just laughed and came after him again. "I've got plenty in me yet," Sean retorted. "You're just scared I'm going to show you up in front of your new followers!" He said tipping his head to the men still watching their bout.

"Sean! I'm not kidding! You should quit before you hurt yourself," Viggo said, sidestepping Sean's tired lunge easily.

"Make me," Sean taunted back and came after him yet again.

"Fine," laughed Viggo, and with a practiced twist and pull sent Sean's blade flying to clatter against the fence. Then he tripped him for good measure as his momentum carried him by. Viggo could never have managed a stunt like that in their days fighting together, but Sean was nearly two years out of practice.

Which didn't mean he fought any less dirty than he ever did. Feeling himself going down, Sean played an old trick of his own, tangling his legs with Viggo's and bringing his friend down with him. Then they were rolling in the dirt of the paddock, wrestling and grappling. Viggo wasn't sure how he found himself on top, pinning Sean face down under him, an arm bent forcefully behind his back.

"Do you yield?" murmured Viggo in Sean's ear. A curt nod was his reply. When Viggo released Sean's arm, his friend turned and twisted under him, so that they were face to face. Sean grinned up at him. 

"So, now what?" Sean asked. And for a moment Viggo thought he saw the grin falter and something else in the deep green of Sean's eyes. Viggo shoved himself to his feet and held out a hand to Sean.

"Bath," said Viggo. "Then food."

Then to both their surprise, the ring around them erupted into cheers and clapping, hooting and stomping. Almost by reflex, Viggo faced their spectators and saluted them, as he would the crowd at the arena. At his side, Sean did the same, but almost mockingly, and Viggo recognized the twisted smile that Sean had sometimes worn when he drove home the killing blow in a particularly bitter duel. Viggo let Sean lead him back up to the house. Sean ignored the various praises and well-wishes that were offered by the men, and Viggo respected his friend's silence, nodding here and smiling there, but quickly leaving the crowd behind.

* * *

Sean closed the door to the bath chamber softly behind them, as Viggo took it all in. 

"This is incredible," he said. A huge pool, set into the floor. Testing the water with his bare toe, Viggo gave a blissful sigh. "Perfect!"

"Well, what do you expect, in a place like this?" Sean replied. Viggo looked at him carefully, but his face and his voice were neutral. Sean was peeling out of his dusty, sweaty clothes. Viggo had already shed boots, shirt and vest and quickly kicked off his pants.

He picked up one of the jars on the edge of the pool. "Scraper?" he asked. But when he opened the lid of the jar, it wasn't oil. It was something creamy and fragrant. 

Sean laughed at him. Though again, Viggo wasn't sure that it was quite the right laugh. "We're not in the barracks now, Vig. That's your long-lost soap you're holding there." Viggo looked at him in disbelief. 

"Soap?" He stuck a finger into the paste. Definitely a soft soap. And considering how much he'd missed that little part of civilization, strangely disappointing.

Sean had always been able to read him like an open page.

"Unless you'd _rather_ have oil," Sean said. Viggo didn't know how to answer. Sean just grinned and walked around the pool to a shelf set into the back wall. 

"There's no reason we can't have both," he said, as he poured oil from a stone jar into a bowl. He brought bowl and scraper back around the pool, and handed them to Viggo.

"I have to say, I agree with you about soap," Sean went on, "But I've missed this." 

Viggo dipped his fingers in the oil and walked around behind his friend. He ran his hand down over Sean's spine, planning to work outwards in smooth efficient strokes, as he had learned to do from Sean, all those years ago.

"So many people touch me now," Sean murmured, rolling his shoulders under Viggo's hands, "but none of them have fingers like yours." Sean sighed a little and rolled his shoulders again. Then Sean turned around so suddenly, Viggo nearly dropped the bowl in surprise. There was something in the look on Sean's face that Viggo didn't understand.

"But don't do it that way. Do it the way you did that first time. That day, when you were so afraid, but you still wanted me. You wanted me, and you touched me, and you knew me, and you knew my name. Before you started pretending that you didn't." 

Viggo felt his face go hot. Tears were coming shockingly fast, too. He could feel the sting of them, feel them closing his throat. He fought them back. 

He knew what the look on Sean's face was now. The heat in his eyes. Sean was angry. Sean had figured him out. Maybe had known all this time, and here was Viggo, wanting oil instead of soap. But what Sean was thinking - it wasn't true.

"That's not why I'm here," said Viggo. He was amazed that he kept all but the slightest tremor out of his voice. 

"Of course it's not," Sean replied. "If I had thought it was why you were here, I would have killed you as soon as you freed me this morning, and fallen on the bloody sword."

Sean took a step forward, crowding Viggo, but not quite touching him. Viggo had the bath at his back. There wasn't anywhere for him to go. Then Sean took the bowl from Viggo's hands and set it by the edge of the water. Viggo just stared at him, then blinked and shook his head. 

"Since I can see you're not up to finishing what you started," Sean said, flashing him a little smile, "I think we should have a proper bath with soap instead." Sean slipped into the bath from the other side and ducked under the water.

The sudden shift of mood from anger to playful confused Viggo even more. But he felt it was a choice between continuing on with the bath or leaving. If there was any hope of salvaging the day, he would rather stay than go. So he let himself down to the floor and stepped into the deep pool.

The water was gloriously hot, and the pool was deep and wide enough to paddle a few strokes. Viggo swam to the other side, then set his knees on the bottom so that he was chest deep in the water. As he rubbed the water out of his eyes, Sean suddenly moved up behind him, too close again. Viggo's instinct was again to move away, and again it was the pool that had him trapped. He tried to twist around, when something cool and squishy plopped down on his head. Startled, Viggo reached out and caught the edge of the bath with his hands.

"You should shut your eyes," Sean warned. Sean was working his fingers through the damp strands of Viggo's hair, working in the soap, pressing long, strong fingers into his scalp, and his forehead. It felt amazing. Viggo couldn't stop himself from relaxing into Sean's hands, despite his friend's unsettling behavior. 

"Rinse it out of your hair, then I'll do your back," Sean suggested. Viggo didn't have to be told twice. He ducked back under the hot water and swam to the other side. Sean came back with another handful of the soap and moved down to Viggo's neck and shoulders. This they had done for each other before, so many times. Viggo leaned forward against the edge, giving Sean more leverage to knead and pull the muscles.

When Sean shifted against him again, Viggo was taken completely by surprise. Suddenly there were long strong arms wrapped around him, pulling and pressing him back into Sean's chest. Sean was breathing hard in his ear. When Viggo tried to twist to look at him, Sean just held him tighter and shuffled forward a little on his knees so that there was no mistaking the press of Sean's erection against his thigh. Viggo swore as his own cock, already half hard from the heat water and Sean's hands on him, twitch in an enthusiastic response.

"Why did I let you pretend, Viggo?" Sean whispered. "Do you know how long it's been since I touched anyone but you? It was that woman, after our first fight. Do you remember how long ago that was? Years, now. And I wanted you before that. I think I wanted you from the first time I saw you, that day in the arena. But I let you pretend, anyway. I've thought about that nearly every day for two years, and I still can't explain to myself why I never let it happen."

As Sean spoke, he reached out to the bowl of oil, still beside the pool. As Viggo felt Sean's whisper against his ear, he watch Sean press his full palm into the bowl, catching more oil as he made a fist that he carefully brought back and lowered under the surface of the water.

The first touch of Sean's hand, tracing along the bottom of his erection, brought Viggo back to his senses. 

"Sean! Sean, stop!" Viggo pushed and twisted, lunging to his feet in the waist-deep water, turning to confront his friend. Though now their new positions and Viggo's evident erection, brought to mind other ideas and didn't really improve the situation much. Viggo sat down hard on the edge of the bath, and Sean pounced on him, tugging him back into the pool. Now they were face to face. For a heartbeat he was looking deep into Sean's eyes, now impossibly dark, ringed with emerald. 

"Sean," he said weakly. It was more of a moan than a protest. 

Then his fingers were in Sean's hair, and they were kissing in the hot water. Viggo had worked so hard not to imagine this, that now it was like a revelation, kissing Sean, letting that strong scarred body he knew so well crush him into the corner of the pool, where there was a seat, of course, and then just kissing and sucking and licking and tasting. 

He hardly thought until he found himself with his teeth on Sean's neck, Sean tipping his head back to accept the mark with a deep groan. He took a steadying breath, inhaling the moist air of the bathing room, scented heavily now with the rosemary from the soap and the pure olive oil that glossed the top of the bath water. As he sat back he noticed the fresh tattoo on Sean's shoulder for the first time. The one from Wellington.. Viggo's fingers strayed over the Elvish letters. Somewhere in the back of his mind a voice murmured, _My mark._

"You can't walk out of here, back out into that house, with a bruise on your neck," Viggo said. His voice sounded far away. He couldn't take his eyes off the ink on Sean's arm. Sean grunted and surged up, bringing them chest to chest again.

"All right," Sean agreed, reaching for something behind Viggo's back. A slick sound and the strong smell of olives. The oil again.

"No one will be able to tell that we did this, will they?" he asked. 

Viggo tensed as Sean shifted a little, so that he was nearly sitting in Viggo's lap. Then the well-oiled hand caught both their cocks, and Sean reached around him again, this time with his other hand. Then Sean took them both into a two-handed grip and Viggo lost all ability for coherent though. He whimpered and let his head fall back onto the edge of the bath, and Sean took immediate advantage of the offered neck. But he didn't suck or bite, just licked and kissed, and occasionally ran the hard edge of his teeth over the increasingly sensitive skin. He was breathing hard, panting against Viggo's neck and ear. Viggo was biting his fist now to stop himself from making so much noise that anyone on the other side of the doors would know exactly what they were doing, bruises as evidence or not. Sean's hands around him, Sean's cock pulsing against his, Sean's bare body pressing into him, Sean's mouth, now suckling his ear. Viggo didn't hold out long. He came with a sob into Sean's fist, and Sean added Viggo's semen to the slickness around their erections, sending shuddering aftershocks though Viggo, as he pumped several more stokes and reached his own climax, the heat of him distinct from the heat of the water against Viggo's belly.

They collapsed into each other, letting the disturbed waters of the bath slosh around them, until Sean laughed breathlessly and pushed himself away. Viggo thought he must be grinning like a madman, and he was amazed to see the expression reflected on Sean's face. No anger, or regret, or confusion. Just happiness, and frank lust. 

"Food!" Sean said, and stood in the cooling water. He reached down to Viggo and helped him up from the bench. But as they stood there, holding hands in the water, they were drawn together again, kissing again, til Viggo laughed and shoved Sean away pushing him out of the water. 

"Food." Viggo reminded him.


	16. Laurel

As they made their way back to his room, the day finally caught up with Sean. He was suddenly so exhausted he was stumbling on the stairs.

"Are you alright?" Viggo asked, catching him by the arm.

"I'm fine. Just tired. Imagine if I rousted you out of bed to practice at midnight?" He said, with a chuckle. 

"Well, maybe I should put you to bed and feed you," Viggo suggested, and to Sean it sounded like only half a tease. He pushed open the door to his room and went in, catching his friend by the wrist and giving a pull and twist that sent Viggo tripping across the room to land with a solid thump on the bed. Sean was about to follow him when he saw her.

His mistress. Sitting at his table, which was spread with the best food the house had to offer its most honored guests. 

"Lady," he said, bowing slightly.

She beamed at both of them. "I'm sorry to interrupt your day," she said to Viggo. "But I was hoping you would let me eat with you and talk a few minutes. I promise I won't take much of your time."

Sean looked at Viggo, who was picking himself up from the bed. Sean hoped that his friend would say no, and send her away. But instead, Viggo just nodded and came back across the room to bow to her. Sean was sure Viggo was blushing, and that in itself made up for the interruption. At least in part.

"We would be honored, Lady," Viggo said, bowing deeply to her, and taking a seat at the table. Resigned, Sean sat down opposite him and began picking at the foods offered.

"I want to come back to the question of how to make you happier here," she said to him without preamble. Sean raised his eyes from the food and looked at her coldly, but made no comment. She sighed in exasperation.

"My Master-At-Arms watched the two of you today and was very impressed. He tells me I am wasting your abilities and has suggested that you should train my household guard."

Sean said nothing. He didn't even look at her. The food was sticking in his throat. He was tired and Viggo was here and this woman was prattling on about something that in the end Sean knew she wouldn't really let him have, even if he accepted her offer.

Laurel had enough experience dealing with stubborn men to know she needed to change her tack. She turned her best sincere eyes on Viggo. "I could see how happy he was out there this morning, Viggo. He should have a sword in his hand and a challenge to fight. He could have that everyday."

Sean laughed, and leaned back in his chair. There were tears pricking at his eyes. He hoped neither of them could see it.

"He would have a mutiny on his hands, Lady," Sean sneered, "Half his men would be terrified to fight me, even with a dull practice blade. You know how many of them have stripped and bound and raped me in the past year. Nearly every one of them has insulted me in some way, and there are easily a dozen of them who would rightly fear for their lives if I got near them with my arms free."

"And that's not to mention that no free warrior would stoop to enter any field of battle, even a pratice ring, to fight a pleasure slave," he laughed again, and touched the band on his right arm with his cuffed left hand. "You put the bands on me, Lady. I'm no longer worthy to hold a blade. Viggo here can be forgiven for fighting me. We are old friends and were sword brothers in our time together. He can be sentimental and spend a day crossing blades with a whore. But none of your guards will consider it."

Laurel made a dismissive noise and leaned forward towards him.

"I told you it was the Master's idea, not mine. He is the one who thinks this is a good idea. He says he would dismiss his men and bring on new ones, if you would agree to instruct. I'm sure you could help select the replacements, and there are plenty of men in this city who would give much to learn from you, whore or not."

Sean just gave her a cold, level look, then turned back to his meal.

She turned to Viggo. "Make him listen to me," she said, clearly annoyed. "He won't let me do anything for him. If you love him, you'll convince him to do this."

* * *

Viggo was watching Sean across the table. Viggo wasn't certain that Laruel would recognize it, but Sean wore a closed, angry look that Viggo had learned to read on him, even back in Wellington. Maybe she did know. Maybe that was why she was here, having the conversation with both of them, rather than waiting to talk to her slave privately when the partron was gone.

Viggo sat thoughtfully a long time. Sean continued to eat, and Laurel sat watching them both. 

Finally Viggo knew what he wanted to say.

"Lady, you say you want Sean to be happy here. I'm sure that is true. I've been a slave in Sennet's house for years now, and I know what it is like to have a good master. And I saw what happened to Sean in Rodin's house, and I have a good idea what it is like to have a cruel one."

"But even Sennet, who is considered to be lenient with his slaves almost to a fault, betrayed us. Sean earned money for him in the arena for years before our last fight. The tradition of the arena slaves said that if Sean stopped fighting in the arena, he should be given his freedom and his fortune and allowed to go on his way. But Sennet sold him to Rodin instead. And Rodin rewarded Sean for loyalty by making a warrior into a bedwarmer." 

Viggo looked back and forth from Sean to Laurel. Sean might as well have been alone in the room, for all the attention he was giving to the conversation or his two guests. _An actor even in this reality,_ Viggo thought, not for the first time. But Laurel was giving him her full attention. He shrugged and leaned back in his chair.

"If you really want to help him, you'll free him. Today. Now. He doesn't belong here. We both know that in the past two years you've already made a fortune with him. He only came to your house after he should have been freed by two men who consider themselves fair and honorable, but who clearly care about nothing but their own greed and purposes. You should do the honorable thing and give Sean the freedom that he has clearly earned and which should have been his by right."

Laurel didn't reply immediately. She seemed lost in thought. Suddenly she shook her head, and smiled her broadest smile.

"I'm sorry, I've intruded on your day too long already." She stood gracefully, and waved them to keep their seats.

"Think about it," she said, though it wasn't clear whom she was addressing. Then she left the room.

* * *

Sean grinned at Viggo across the table.

"So where were we?" he asked, trying to push aside his anger at her and this place and his fate and focus on Viggo again. He suddenly felt that precious minutes were slipping away. He had a sort of desperation now, to touch Viggo again. He reached out with his left foot under the table and hooked it around Viggo's calf. The press of the cuff on his ankle was strangely erotic between them.

Viggo nearly flinched from the contact. He pushed his chair back a little too quickly and stood, nervousness and distress clear now in the way he ran both hands through his hair and woudln't quite meet Sean's eyes. Sean felt a cold twist in his gut, watching the tension in Viggo's familiar lanky frame. 

"I think I was going to put you to bed and feed you," Viggo began with a thin smile, "But you've already eaten. So maybe we should just put you to bed. I can rub your feet til you fall asleep."

Sean really was feeling desparate now. He was on his feet and around the the table, and with a push that had momentum to carry them both to the bed, he suddenly had a startled and winded Viggo pinned under him. The eyes that finally met his were worried. Sean cursed under his breath, then kissed him. Deep and hot, trying to take away Viggo's ability to think clearly; to erase Laurel's visit from their day; seeking the honey-sweet lust that Viggo had accidentally shown him in the bath. Sean knew exactly how well Viggo could control his desire. He had watched Viggo do it for years, after all. If Laurel had driven him back into hiding, Sean wasn't sure he could draw him out again.

"No," he growled, "I believe I had just decided to give you something to remember the next time you take yourself in hand." He smiled sweetly down a Viggo, who was flushed and still trying to catch his breath.

"Sean," Viggo sounded uncertain, "This isn't why I came here. It isn't. You know that. And I don't want to be one of the people... I don't want to... I'm not sure I can..." 

Viggo didn't know what to say. That in itself made Sean curse again. Viggo shut his eyes, and Sean saw tears escape, one from under each eyelid. He leaned down and licked them away. Viggo sighed a long shuddering breath into his neck.

"Can't we just lie down and sleep the way we used to do?" Viggo whispered the request against Sean's skin.

Sean rolled away a little and they crawled up the huge bed to the pillows. The room and day were warm enough, but Viggo sat up, tugging and squirming to free the light top coverlet to lay over them. Sean caught him by the waist, getting a startled look. Sean slipped his finger under the drawstring of Viggo's linen pants. Sean ignored the worried look that earned him, and slid the simple garment down over Viggo's hips and off. Viggo didn't stop him. Viggo finally pulled the coverlet over himself and settled back down into the softness of the pillows and the bed. Viggo watched Sean almost warily, then stopped watching as Sean discarded his own trousers, then crawled back up into the bed. He lay down face to face with Viggo, very close to him, but not touching him.

"I can guarantee that anything you want from me has never been done in this room before." Sean said, with a little smile. He reached out to touch Viggo's strong jaw with light, gentle fingers. He traced up over his cheekbone and back around the curve of his ear, pushing away a stray strand of greying blond hair. 

It was odd, Sean thought absently, how Viggo always stayed the same. Sean wondered how much older than himself Viggo was, and why over the last few years, it seemed he hadn't aged any more. Not one more tiny wrinkle. Not one more silver hair. Just the same. 

Sean let his fingers wander, back through his friend's hair, still slightly silky-damp from being washed. He met Viggo's eyes again.

"What if I promise you that I won't let anything happen that I don't want? If I promise you that, can you promise me that you won't deny us things we _both_ want?"

His fingers continued to play through Viggo's hair, and Viggo's eyelids drifted shut. Sean thought not so much because of the soothing touch as because Viggo couldn't make himself look anymore. So Sean closed the distance between them, pressing his lips gently to Viggo's, not testing or pushing, just waiting to see what Viggo would do. He let his fingers trail down the nape of Viggo's neck and over his shoulder, down over a muscled bicep all the way to his wrist. Viggo trembled slightly, under the delicate caress. Sean took his wrist gently and drew Viggo's hand up to rest on Sean's own jaw. With a long sigh, Viggo gave in, letting his fingers slip back through Sean's hair, responding to Sean's soft kiss hesitantly.

Sean indulged, then. What he had told Viggo in the bath was true. It had been a very long time since Sean had touched anyone at all, much less like this. He let his fingers play over planes and hollows, soft and hard places, until Viggo gave a little squeak and jumped. Sean grinned and pounced, getting a yell of protest and he shoved Viggo over to pin him and tickle him. Viggo cursed and gasped and laughed and fought, and they nearly wrestled themselves off the large bed. 

The ended up face to face, breathless and still laughing, with Viggo on top. Sean's half-hearted attempts at escape brought them hard against each other and suddenly Viggo wasn't laughing anymore. He said something under his breath that Sean couldn't understand and pushed off and away.

Sean followed him over, and Viggo was pinned under him again. 

"Sean," he protested, turning his face away, and starting to push Sean off. Sean held tight. Denied lips, he buried his face in the crook of Viggo's neck, licking and kissing. 

"Only what we both want," he murmured, warm and damp against Viggo's throat, "but not less. Please."


	17. Dreaming

Sean had spent two years coming to terms with life as a bed slave. 

It hadn't been easy, in that time, to realize how deeply he was in love with Viggo. 

He spent the nights denying the lust of his patrons, but in the golden light of a late afternoon, he'd wake and take himself in hand and imagine what it would be like to be Viggo's lover. Imagine the tightness of Viggo's passage around him. Or with oiled fingers, stretching and preparing himself for his night's work, feel Viggo inside him, touching him in the most intimate places.

It was a fine line to walk. 

He never imagined Viggo when his patrons came to him. He wouldn't use pure love and desire as a tool to make day-to-day insults more bearable.

Except sometimes, when Ursus was most insistent. Sometimes it was better to think of Viggo.

Sean knew exactly what he wanted from Viggo here in the warmth of midday, when Sean was usually sleeping and dreaming of open spaces or the arena or the weight of Viggo, curled against his side.

Sean wanted Viggo to be his lover. To yield and take. To touch and taste. To weigh him down and send him flying through the ether.

And to get everything he wanted, Sean realized he would have to show Viggo that it was alright.

* * *

Viggo was tight and hot around him. His face was calm and his eyes were clear, though there was tension around them and a tremble running through his body Viggo couldn't completely control. And of course, the long, slow breaths gave him away.

Sean laughed shakily, "You and your _ujjayi_ breathing," he said, "am I hurting you?"

Viggo smiled up at him, a little strained, but Sean thought not distressed. 

"Some," he replied. "It's been a while. Give me minute to adjust, and then it'll all be good."

Sean laughed again, "Well, not too long, I'm begging you. It's been quite a while for me, too." He settled his weight onto his elbows and knees, dipping his head down to nip and nuzzle at Viggo's ear, trying not to interfere with his lover's breathing.

"No, not long," Viggo agreed, and after not long at all gave his hips a small, experimental roll. Sean groaned from deep in his chest, and tried not to just let loose right there.

As Viggo began to rock up against him, Sean responded with long slow strokes, adjusting his hips and knees, watching Viggo's face for signs. When he found the perfect spot, Viggo let out his breath in a rush. 

"Yeah," he moaned, "there it is." He growled as Sean stroked across it again with more confidence. Sean sucked in a hard breath as Viggo spasmed around him.

Having found the angle, Sean kept his strokes long and liquid. He drew them out impossibly. Ursus had done this to him so many times. He pushed that unpleasant thought away, and turned the ugly experience to Viggo's pleasure, capturing and pinning slim wrists to the mattress when Viggo reached up to stroke himself. 

Viggo groaned and bucked upon being restrained, but Sean just chuckled softly and continued the long slow torture.

When Viggo came, in hot splashes against Sean's chest, the smell of sweat and seed had never been so perfect. 

With Viggo's essence on his skin and scent in his nostrils and taste on his lips and skin under his palms and body all around him, Sean came in a kind of white light that faded to a warm safe darkness.

* * *

Viggo had slept the afternoon away. When he woke to the familiar damp warmth of Sean draped over him, he was confused and disoriented and had to grope through his groggy brain for some explanation.

Sean's bed. Sean's room. The Laurel. Sean.

Viggo opened his eyes to lamplight. Sean's head was on his chest, arm thrown across Viggo's belly. Their legs were tangled together. It was only slightly more intimate than a hundred mornings in the barracks. 

But unlike those mornings, Viggo knew that now he could look if he wanted, touch if he wanted, and not have to hide or apologize. After their day together, Viggo wanted Sean with a fierce longing that had him rock hard and nearly trembling.

Viggo's waking disturbed Sean's sleep. Sean sighed against him and shifted, rolling onto his back in the sheets. 

Viggo sat up to watch him, reaching out gentle fingers to touch Sean's bare belly and trace a delicate finger down the crease between torso and hip. Sean gave another long sigh in his sleep as Viggo ran an open palm over the solid muscle of Sean's thigh, wrapping long fingers around to caress the vulnerable softness behind Sean's knee.

Sean's little gasp brought Viggo's head up with a snap. Sean was wide awake and watching him, his color up. Among other things. Viggo couldn't help his first reaction.

"Sorry," he murmured, not quite able to look Sean in the eye, "Didn't mean to wake you." He managed the nerve to leave his hand where it was.

"Time to wake up, anyway," Sean replied. "Besides, you know how I sleep. It's only gotten worse here. If I don't want to wake up, I just don't."

Sean reached out for him, and Viggo let himself be drawn forward, til he was sprawled over sleep-warm skin.

"Let yourself take what you want, Viggo," Sean whispered.

And Viggo finally did. He drank the kisses from Sean's mouth. Devoured lips and tongue. Roved down Sean's throat to broad chest and hard nipples. A long broad stroke of the tongue back to that perfect smile.

Sean writhed under the onslaught. He pushed and rubbed their cocks together, gasping when Viggo bit down on his ear lobe, squirming as a clever, moist tongue touched unexpectedly sensitive skin.

And Sean begged. 

"Viggo..." with a tiny inhalation.

"Oh, please..." Panting.

"Gods, I can't wait. Please!" Lyrical.

Almost without thinking, Viggo was urging Sean's knees apart, meeting no resistance whatsoever, only enthusiasm as long legs wrapped around his back and drew him in tighter. He was nudging against Sean's opening before he thought clearly enough to realize what he was doing and what he hadn't done.

"Sean," he managed to grate out, bracing his hands by Sean's shoulders, trying slow their breakneck pace. 

"We can't do this without oil," Viggo insisted.

Sean practically glared up at him, lust denied vivid in his scowl.

"I'm not letting you go unless you promise you'll finish what you've started," he growled, tightening his thighs around Viggo's body just to show he meant what he said.

Viggo laughed. 

"Fine," he said, "where is it?"

Viggo was amazed at how tight Sean was around his fingers. But he took two easily and relaxed quickly. Viggo smeared a palm-full of oil over his own cock, and found himself looking down at Sean with more confidence.

"Alright," he said, "I'm all yours. How do you want it?"

Sean gave him a nearly feral grin.

"Let's see what you've got, old man." The tone was mocking, but the smile was sweet, and the deep emerald of his eyes was all the reassurance Viggo needed. He lined up and shoved, knocking Sean's breath from his lungs. Sean arched his whole body in response, pushing back just as hard, and they returned to their earlier rush with gaspy laughter, rutting like the end was near, until Viggo suddenly threw all his weight down onto his lover, brining them to an abrupt halt.

Sean moaned in frustration, but Viggo just grinned at him, then reared back and caught Sean behind the knees. He folded Sean's legs back, and the dangerous gleam behind Sean's smile told him that the move was appreciated. He settled back on top of Sean, now pinned and exposed, and rested the head of his cock against Sean's hole.

And teased him. Gently rubbing, circling Sean's opening. Barely pressing. Pushing in ever so slightly, then drawing back to trace up and down Sean's crevice as Sean shuddered and cursed under him. When Viggo finally lined up and eased back into him, Sean sobbed and begged and Viggo resumed the furious pace they had set earlier. Sean came hard between them and Viggo continued to pound into his clenching channel, reveling in the hot tendrils of pleasure that worked their way out from the base of his spine, until he followed Sean to orgasm and filled him with his heat and lust.

* * *

"Old man..." Viggo muttered, trying to sound annoyed. "You'll be as old as I am one day, you know."

Sean turned his head lazily to look at Viggo's profile.

"The insulted tone would be more effective if you weren't grinning that maniac grin," Sean snorted. Then he thought of question he'd never asked.

"How old are you, anyway?"

The smile faded to thoughtful.

"I don't know."

"You must have some idea."

Viggo shifted and let his arm fall over his eyes.

"That first day in the arena, I was 40. So 44 I guess?"

Sean rolled up onto his elbow to look down at him in surprise. Viggo peeked out with one eye and laughed at the shocked look on Sean's face.

"I'm one of the city ancients, huh?"

"Maybe not ancient," Sean said, sounding shaken. "Maybe eternal."

Viggo turned his head away. "I hope not."

* * *

"Do you remember the day they marked you? It was four days after we met in the arena, wasn't it?" Sean asked, more to sort out his own memories than for actual confirmation. 

"I was so amazed by how you took the pain. And Gods, your swordplay when the Master evaluated you had frankly shocked us all. I couldn't believe you had made it through that melee without a mark on you. I knew you weren't one of us, but you were the most impressive warrior I had ever met."

Viggo smiled and wouldn't meet Sean's eyes again. He shut them instead, and for the second time that day Sean saw him blush. He chuckled a little. Viggo pleased and embarrassed and off balance. The surprising thrill of power it gave him was having certain effects on his cock. Or maybe that was the heat of Viggo so close. Or the clean sweet smell of his skin. Sean found himself grinning and was glad that Viggo wasn't watching him. 

"That afternoon," he continued, "I realized something. I wanted you. I knew you were a free man, and I wished the new mark on your shoulder, the one that bound you, was my mark." He laughed, mostly to himself this time.

"I would have put bands on you, that moment, if I could have. Bound you to my bed." Viggo's eyes flew open at this. Sean didn't look away, though he felt his own face coloring now. He pushed on. "I wanted to spoil you and give you everything you ever wanted. Those first few days with you I didn't know what to do with the thoughts that went through my own head. I was so confused that afternoon. Because I didn't want you for this," Sean gestured vaguely to the room around them, "I really just wanted _you_."

Viggo's eyes were huge, now, fixed on him, and Sean finally couldn't meet them any longer. He sat up and rested his head on folded knees.

"Do you remember that afternoon?" He asked again. "I said the words of binding over you. No one else had done it. So I did."

The silence was long and heavy. Sean finally couldn't hide anymore. He raised his head from his knees. Viggo looked thoughtful. The flush was still in his cheeks.

"So I'm a free man, with a slave's brand, bound by the laws ritual and tradition to a pleasure slave?" The corners of Viggo's mouth were twitching. Sean suddenly needed to possess Viggo all over again. He rolled up onto hands and knees and crawled over him.

"The words that bind a slave are the same words that a man says over his woman on their wedding night," Sean added, trying very hard to keep his expression neutral, though he had difficulty containing the sly grin just under the surface.

Viggo was laughing.

"So what are you saying, then? I'm your wife?!"

* * *

The grey light of dawn through the tiny window found Viggo exhausted, slightly drunk, and on the very edge of tears.

"You know Rodin's dead," Viggo said.

"I had heard that."

Suddenly, Viggo found that he couldn't tell Sean the whole story.

"How can I leave you here?" he asked instead.

Sean shrugged. He was sitting at the foot of the bed by the nearly empty bowl of berries they had been feeding each other.

"What do you think of Laruel's offer? Sean asked him.

Viggo was suddenly angry.

"You won't be here long enough for it to make any difference," he stated. 

Then he was on his feet and dressing, carefully contained fury evident in every gesture.

* * *

The room spoke of sensual indulgence in a way this room never did. 

The half devoured feast on the table. Two cups half full and three bottles completely empty. The fruit bowl spilling and staining the linens. The bed more like a nest, having been ripped apart and put back together more than once in the long night. The lingering saltsour odor of cum and sweat.

Every place Zara looked she saw the residue of energy and desire.

Sean sat naked and cross-legged on the rumpled bed, staring at nothing. The low lamplight caught the warm rich gleam of his bindings; the burnished gold of his hair; the perfect clarity of the tears on his face; the dull, hard edge of the blade across his knees; the absolute emptiness of his vacant eyes.

Zara shut the door softly behind her.

"I'm dreaming," he whispered brokenly as he pressed his damp face against her apron and let her wrap her arms around him.

They cried together for a long time.


	18. Homecoming, Part I

Viggo swept back thought the streets like a summer storm though the wheat fields. Sword at his side, dagger in his belt, knife in his boot, one blade in a beat-up sheath over his back, and in this weather, not even a cloak to disguise any of it. Citizens stepped aside as he strode through the market, the grim set of his features and the killing gleam in his eye plain for anyone to see.

He had wasted enough time playing games with Sennet, and Sean had paid the price. In his mind's eye, Viggo saw Sean, standing in the firelight when it was broad daylight outside, naked but defiant, blade in hand and bindings on his beautiful body. But in Viggo's mind's eye, Sean was forlorn. Lost. 

Sennet was going to free Viggo today. One way or another.

Lost in his own racing thoughts, Viggo didn't realize until too late that the guard at the gate wasn't the usual contingent. They were waiting for him.

* * *

Sean woke from a frightening dream of flying without falling to the familiar feeling of a body curled against him. He opened his eyes blearily to find Zara huddled against him under a quilt too heavy for the season, and the steward standing over them, looking so smug Sean would have kicked him hard in the face, if he'd been able to get a leg free.

"Well, well. So you've finally given a patron something worth paying for? I sincerely hope it will be a new trend for you. We'll be able to double your rates." His tone of amusement touched a fury that Sean had thought he'd suppressed finally months ago. He lurched up, but tangled in the covers and the girl, he couldn't move fast enough for her. 

Zara caught him and tackled him back to the bed hard, pressed her lips to his ear and breathed, "If I kill him, nobody will know how it happened."

Sean saw the death in her eyes, and he smiled a crooked predatory smile at the steward as she shifted off of him, climbed down from the bed, and straightened her clothes.

The Steward, a man who usually had too much to do and not enough staff to do it with, was quickly reverting back to his usual habits. And perhaps he recognized the danger in Sean's expression, because he was suddenly all business again. 

"The Mistress has been looking for you high and low," he addressed Zara. "But you might as well wait now."

He turned to Sean, "And an escort is waiting outside for you. Dress and attend your Mistress."

Then he turned on his heel and left.

Zara looked flustered. She examined him closely. 

"You're in no state to be seen outside this room. What are we going to do about you?"

Sean knew she wanted to save his pride. In the state he was in, everyone in the house would know what he had done with Viggo last night. But he found that at this point, he really didn't care. He moved about the room, looking for something to put on and was surprised and pleased to find the clothes that Viggo had brought him neatly brushed and folded over the back of one of the chairs. The linen shirt had been laundered, dried and pressed. He shook his head. Life in the lap of luxury. The household staff probably assumed that Viggo would take his things away with him when he left.

* * *

There they stood, in Laurel's doorway. Her two most prized possessions, these days, if truth be told. They looked a mess. Sleep rumpled. Sean in desperate need of a bath after what had clearly been a long night of the best kind of sex. She couldn't get enough of him in the leather and linen, either. It was a shame he wasn't more willing. The things she could have done with him. She would have had the Emperor himself here as Sean's regular patron.

She shook her head, and smiled in welcome.

"Please sit, both of you. We have a lot to discuss."

Sean sat, his movements showing the slight stiffness brought on by the previous day's exercise. 

Zara didn't so much sit as alight. 

She was not used to being invited to join her Mistress' audiences. Usually she faded into the background, listening and learning and anticipating the needs of Mistress and guests alike. Being asked to sit made her uneasy - made her wonder who was waiting and listening in the back of the room. Except that as best she could tell, there was no one. The Mistress had closed the door softly behind them and the three of them were alone in the sunny airy space.

She sat opposite them, her warm dark eyes dancing and a barely suppressed grin on her face.

"I've begun the invitation list for your unbinding," she said to Sean without preamble. "I want you to look it over and be sure I haven't missed anyone."

* * *

Sean heard the words, but it took a moment to understand them. When he did, the killing smile was back, and Laurel answered it, almost a mirror image.

"You don't have to invite anyone to an unbinding when the pleasure slave works in a house like this," he said. "That's for concubines and courtesans. You just need to put me out in the front room for free one evening, and the smith can have the last free fuck and mark me at dawn."

Laurel gave him a sly, foxy grin he could have devoured. 

"I think they all deserve a bit of warning, though, don't you?"

Zara was watching them both with a confused kind of shock. 

"No one will come. They'll all stay home with their bodyguards," she whispered, almost to herself. Two scathing, glances rested on her, and she looked very much like a rabbit in the wolf pen. Sean almost felt sorry for her, but he couldn't contain the battle lust that was coming up in him, and he thought maybe Laurel was the same.

"They'll all be terrified," Laurel purred. "They won't just stay home. I have to give two days' notice of the unbinding. They'll leave town. A third of the Council will find reasons to visit the furthest reaches of the Empire to give you room to enjoy your new freedom."

"Let's get started, then," Sean growled. "I have business to see to outside these walls, and the sooner we give them their notice, the better."

* * *

They had talked for awhile. Gone down her list. Discussed with some amusement refreshments to be served. Had enjoyed some refreshments themselves, served by Zara, who, having never been dismissed, had stayed and attended them. The two of them were more than a little drunk, and Zara was watching them warily.

"We still have our own business to discuss," Laurel said finally, after a long lull in the conversation.

Sean gave her a level look over the rim of his mug.

"What are you planning?" she asked him.

Sean's eyes shifted away.

"I need to get Viggo away from Sennet," Sean said quietly. He felt like a fool saying it so bluntly, but she was going to free him and he was going to have nothing. He would need her help to help Viggo. He wondered if she knew that and had an offer to make.

"I don't think Viggo needs your help," she said quietly. "I know more about him than you do, now."

"Yeah?" Sean asked. "What exactly do you think you know that I don't."

"We both know he killed Micon. Hardly a week ago. Except Micon was killed, it is widely rumored, by a very successful and dangerous assassin that has taken to hunting the powerful in this city..."

Sean was listening carefully now. 

"The assassin made his presence known with the murder of Rodin, oh, a little more than a year ago. The body was never found. Rodin just disappeared, along with every single precious item in his entire private chambers. People still can't figure out how it was done. The town might think that Rodin had just run, if it weren't for the dead dogs. And the other assassinations, almost identical, that have occurred since."

"Including Micon's..."

"Viggo and Sennet," Sean murmured.

"Viggo looking for you, I'd guess. Sennet must have held out on him. Probably convinced him he didn't know how to find you. So Viggo hunted, and eventually he found what he was looking for."

Sean thought about it. Laurel continued.

"I think your Viggo's going to have a real problem on his hands. Sennet was controlling him with you. But now Viggo's found you. And Viggo has money, somewhere. He stalked out of here in a rage this morning. I suspect he plans to be back for you, possibly even tonight, though I would guess he'd take a little longer to plan and consider. Ah. A good reason to send his invitation first."

She got up from the table and went to the door with the note. Handed it to a guard and sent him away.

"If you're right, lady," Sean said, as she returned to her seat across the table, "Sennet won't wait." He sucked in a deep breath and spat it out, "Is there any way I could convince you to sponsor me to buy him?"

She looked at him a long time.

"What did Sennet owe you when you left his service," she asked quietly.

"A tenth of what I won in the arena," Sean said. "I took over 20,000 for him with Viggo, and another 12,000 or so before Viggo arrived. Plus the 5000 from the melee that day..."

"So," she said thoughtfully, "3700, roughly, for what, five years' work?"

She smiled at him sweetly. 

"You realize that it is also tradition for a pleasure slave to receive a dowry upon an unbinding?" she said. 

Sean snorted. "Not from a house like this," he retorted. But as the words hung in the air between them and he looked into her smiling face, a look of pure shock overtook him. Her grin broadened to perfect smug satisfaction.

She rose gracefully from her seat and went to the shelves were almost two years ago she had found his bindings. Now she took down a different chest.

"If I paid you ten percent for the work you've done here for me over the past two years," she stated in a businesslike fashion, "I would owe you very nearly 20,000. A much better return on your time investment, don't you think?" she asked. "And safer, too."

She set the entire chest in front of him.

"That's 25,000. The 20,000 I owe you, Sennet's 3700, and a little extra for your trouble."

"So now, I don't believe I need to sponsor you to buy your Viggo back." She was grinning like a loon. Sean still wasn't sure he believed any of it.

"Now, let's talk real business."


	19. Homecoming, Part II

"So what's our real business?"

"I want to be more than this city's richest whore," Laurel said. "I want you and Viggo to help me with that."

"I would have thought that you know every dirty little secret in the city, running a place like this," Sean replied, leaning back and taking another long drink of the excellent wine Zara had been pouring for them all morning. "Don't you have every Senator and Counselor in the city wrapped around your little finger?"

She shook her head.

"I know things, but not enough. And I don't want power from behind the scenes. I don't want power by proxy, manipulating an influential citizen here and there."

She thumped her cup down onto the table hard.

"I want to hold the power. Myself. In my own hands."

"You want to sit in the Senate," he said.

She shook her head.

"No. I want more."

With the amount he had drunk, he couldn't stop himself from laughing.

"No woman has ever been a member of the Council!"

"No woman in this city has ever had the kind of wealth and knowledge that I have at my own command," she retorted. "What I lack is the strength to make them fear me."

She leaned forward, urgency in her expression.

"You and Viggo could give me that strength," she practically growled. She rose to her feet and paced the room, every line of her form and posture about aggression and grace now, the delicate courtesan replaced by a warrior who would have been easy and confident in the barracks.

"You could build a guard for me. Keep who you want, recruit who you need. Train them. Run them. Maybe even set up a couple of arena fighters for me, as a show that I'm serious."

She stopped her pacing and rounded on him suddenly.

"But more importantly, you'd let me set up a house for the two of you here in town."

Startled by her sudden attention and the apparent change of topic, Sean blinked a little stupidly.

"How does that help you? I was with you up 'til the house thing..."

The killing gleam was back.

"We both know who Viggo is. I imagine there are other people who have suspicions. I would make sure that the right people knew that the way to Viggo's services was through me. Or channels that I controlled. Make sure that the right people had the right suspicions..."

Sean thought about it.

"So news that I'm on the hunt for my old patrons drives everyone out of town," he mused. "And while they're gone, you bring me on as the new head of your guard, and Viggo as your hired assassin in the wings? The Emperor takes notice, and makes a decision and extends you an invitation to join the Council and there's nobody here to stand in the way."

Sean thought about it as she sat back down across from him and poured herself another cup from the flask.

"Two problems I see with it," he said slowly. She gestured broadly with her free hand for him to proceed.

"First," he said, "and I mean no insult to you, but I won't agree to be the Captain of the Guard for this house."

She nodded with the solemnity of the nearly drunk. 

"That's fine," she said, "I don't need you to take the position. Just be the obvious power in the shadows. That's all I need. Your convincing presence."

He nodded with equal solemnity.

"Then the other problem is your timing," he said.

"If you're right about Viggo and Sennet, then we all need for me to move now. If Sennet decides it's too risky for Viggo to move freely, he could send him back to the arena, or worse. We could lose him."

"But if you free me now, and send them to the hills, you won't have time to get all your rumors and guard and whatnot into place before you have them all back in town again."

She leaned across the table to him.

"But you and Viggo could help me with that, couldn't you? Would it be too much to ask for you to keep the town clear for me?"

The possibilities ran like cold fire through Sean's wine-lubricated veins.

"Maybe we should think about a second list," he suggested, and reached over to refill her cup.

* * *

Zara was attempting to make herself useful and invisible at the same time, a trick she had been perfecting for years, and had never wanted more than she did today. It was unsettling to see two of the most controlled people she knew drinking and even drunk. But it was especially frightening to hear them plot death and violence in the city and see the glee in their faces as they did it. 

The second list was chilling. Sean and Laurel debated the pros and cons of strategically targeting and killing a dozen of Sean's most hated patrons. She wondered if she really would be murdering the Steward after all. Possibly not, though. Sean clearly had better deaths to think about now.

"What about Zara," Sean said suddenly. Zara had been going to the door to order food for an early afternoon meal. Now she froze where she stood, terrified to be the new topic of this bloody discussion. Now the object of two predatory gazes, and she returned their considering stares with a weak smile.

"Mistress?" It came out as a squeak.

"You want her?" Laurel asked. Zara's heart skipped a beat. She was fond of Sean and cared about him, but she didn't like the idea of being sold out of this house as a mistress to a man as dangerous as Sean was. Or possibly to two men as dangerous as Sean was, if she considered Viggo. A lot could be expected of the mistress of a powerful man. Not to mention that it was almost expected that a slave mistress would eventually did at the hands of a new, jealous wife. She would rather stay in this place. The Laurel was safe, comfortable, and she thought her mistress was training her for more. The pathetic smile she had managed began to tremble.

"I don't like the idea of leaving her here," Sean replied. 

Laurel slumped back on the chaise where she was already reclining, then flopped onto her back and raised her arms over her head, admiring her rings and jewelry.

"I won't sell her to you," Laurel said flatly. "She's mine, and I have plans for her." 

Zara could have fallen to her knees in gratitude.

"That's not what I'm proposing," he said quietly. "Zara spends a lot of time with me. The things she says about how you use her time... She sounds like the slave that the swordmaster has chosen for his special journeyman - the one he is grooming for a master's exam..."

Sean's insight startled Zara. She had no idea he paid that much attention to her chatter when she came to his rooms. 

"I would think that if you had plans for her, you'd eventually be freeing her. Do it the same time as you unbind me, and it'll be the easiest night of her career. She perches on the cushions next to me, and nobody will touch her with a ten foot pole."

Zara found that her mouth had fallen open, and she snapped it shut, hoping her mistress hadn't noticed. Sean was grinning at her, delighted at the shock on her face. 

Laurel shoved up onto one elbow and considered both of them. The she began to smile, herself.

"If we do this, Zara, would you stay, or go?"

Zara hardly knew what to say. When she didn't answer immediately, Laurel turned to Sean.

"Would she be welcome in your household? Having her there would strengthen the rumors about the ties between the houses, and she could decide what she wanted. You might find her very useful to have around. A house run by bachelors is always a hellhole to live in. She'd bring you a woman's touch."

And apparently the decision was made without another thought for her. Zara stood there, halfway to fetching lunch, and hardly knew what to do with herself.

* * *

Sean had never circulated in the front room. Despite two years in the house, because of his refusal to behave, there were many roles of the whore he had not played, and this was one of them. 

He really wasn't wearing much less than he would have worn into the arena, but there the stakes were different. The uses of his clothes were different. And other people were very far away.

This room was for the sale of his cock and his ass, and the other people were very, very close.

Still, the invitations had gone out and the Laurel was empty. He, Zara, and the door wardens were very nearly the only people in the front room. Since they were being unbound, any person off the street could have come in and demanded their services, but the Laruel had a reputation, and people didn't come in off the street. By the deepest hours of the night they were both droswing in the large, upholstered couch, legs tangled together, bellies full of tasty morsels from the sideboards. The worst of the evening had been the guards discreetly ogling them.

* * *

The blacksmith came with the first light of dawn. He noted Sean's heavy muscles and battle scars and affection for the girl. Not his day for a free fuck, the smith decided with a shrug. He marked them both as free, and left.

* * *

Sean stood in the stable yard. The new brand on his thigh throbbed as only a burn could. 

He was reeling. 

Three days ago, he had been almost completely without hope.

Two days ago, he had taken Viggo to his bed.

Today he was free.


	20. Homecoming, Part III

Sean felt oddly exposed, moving through the streets. He hadn't been outside the walls of the Laurel - had hardly been beyond the doors of his own room - for months. It was exhilarating and frightening, simply to be walking through the market again. To be able to exchange a piece of copper for a piece of fruit.

He had taken a sword and a knife from Laurel's barracks. One couldn't walk through the streets with this much gold unarmed. And there was, of course, the question of how easy it would be to get Sennet to bargain with him.

* * *

Sennet sat in his work room, eating a light dinner before bed. 

It had been a strange and difficult few days in town. Sean's unbinding had been widely announced, and Sennet had been amused at first to see how many of his colleagues suddenly uprooted their households and left for their most distant landholdings. 

The fashionable were leaving town this summer, he had snickered to himself. 

But the more people left, the more Sennet began to worry. What exactly had they been doing to Sean all this time, that his patrons would be this afraid of him? 

And more to the point, was Sean going to blame Sennet for it?

Sennet pushed his plate away and drained the dregs of the spiced wine from his cup. It was time for bed. Maybe he should make changes in his bodyguard's routine. Wouldn't do to be murdered by his former slave in his sleep.

He turned to the door and there was Sean, sitting on the bench along the wall.

Well. Perhaps he wouldn't have to wait to die in his sleep. Maybe he was going to die right here. Sean had a very long knife in his hand.

But interestingly enough, also a very full purse on the bench next to him.

"I've come for Viggo," Sean announced quietly. "I know what he's worth and I've brought a fair purchase price. I'll cover what you owe him for his winnings. Just give him to me, and you'll never see either of us again."

"I can't sell him to you," Sennet replied. He watched Sean warily. The man was in much better condition than he had any right to be. He was a whore now, not a fighting slave. _No_ , Sennet corrected himself. A free man. Apparently a very wealthy free man.

"Of course, you can. And you will," Sean snarled, not even bothering with the most basic pretensions to civility.

Sennet tried not to let his growing fear show on his face.

"Sean," he said, adopting a tone of condolence, the voice of one about to deliver what he knew to be bad news. "I _can't_ sell him to you. Viggo is dead."

That caught Sean off his footing. The man actually visibly stopped breathing for a moment. Then Sean growled. Growled like a wolf facing the dogs.

"Viggo is not dead. I saw Viggo alive and well two days ago. Viggo is here and you are playing games with me, Sennet. Don't play games with me. I want Viggo, or his body, here in this room, now. Come on. If he's dead, give him to me. I'll mourn him and bury him properly."

Sennet must have flinched.

Sean was up and across the room, his knife to Sennet's throat.

"Sean," he squeaked, "Let's be reasonable…"

"Where is he?" Sean demanded. "I want him. Here. Now."

"Didn't he tell you what he's been doing since he returned from the caravan?" Sennet asked, trying not to panic. "He went out last night and never came back. It's never happened before, but I assume he's dead, or as good as dead. Caught."

The knife pressed deeper into his skin. Sennet felt a little drip of blood trickle down his neck into his shirt. He was suddenly panting, full-fledged panic only a twitch away.

"You're lying," said Sean with certainty. "You forget how well I used to know you, _master_ ," he said scornfully. "Viggo's not dead. He's here somewhere, and I want him." 

Then suddenly the confidence in Sean's face faltered to something else. Sennet staggered as Sean shoved Sennet hard away from him.

"Or he is dead…" Sean's voice was a sibilant hiss. His eyes were wild with anger and hatred. Sean threw aside the knife and drew the long, wicked sword sheathed across his back. 

"You killed him." Sean barely breathed the accusation. "You couldn't control him anymore. You couldn't trust him. So you killed him."

Sennet opened his mouth to scream for his guards, but it was too late. Sean's stroke was quick.

* * *

Sean stopped in the moonlit garden and considered his position. 

What had happened to Viggo? Was he really dead? Was he alive somewhere in the house? Had he been killed or captured during a botched assassination? Sean took a deep breath. What was he going to do now?

Why had he killed Sennet? He felt the blood pounding in his temples and an odd tingling heat through his body. He had felt the killing rage before, but in the arena he had controlled it. He had always thought of it as the secret to his success, that he could control the berserker that was the early demise of so many arena fighters.

But he was sure it was the berserker in him that had killed Sennet with hardly any provocation and no second thought.

 _There_ was an unexpected consequence of two years at The Laurel.

He took another long deep breath.

He couldn't figure it all out right now. Right now he needed to be sure that this revenge didn't get him thrown to the beasts, or even crucified.

Then the thought occurred...

* * *

Sennet's steward was having a very bad morning. The household was in an uproar. Sennet was gone, with only very large quantities of blood on the floor to show that he had been murdered. Not a piece of gold or a precious stone remained anywhere in his private quarters. 

The city guard had been called in and the whispers among the slaves and freemen of the household were that it was the work of the assassin that had been moving through the ranks of the city's powerful for all these months. 

For his own reasons, the steward doubted the mysterious assassin was guilty of this attack. For one thing, Sennet was a bit low on the rungs of power to have caught his attention. For another... 

But the evidence was there for anyone to see.

However, of more interest to the steward was the fact that Sennet died without a son, or even a widow. That meant the whole household enterprise was going to be handed over to the Emperor himself, and the Steward was in a frenzy, checking stores, setting the scullery girls cleaning the dustiest corners, trying to bring the household into some semblance of respectability for the Emperor's Assessor.

He was not in the least surprised when the Assessor arrived only hours after the discovery of Sennet's murder. Nor was he surprised when the Assessor's first demand was to see the Sword Master. Sennet kept one of the most impressive private barracks of arena slaves in the city, after all.

The Sword Master gave his usual Master's nod to his _master_ , a slight stooping of his shoulders his only acknowledgement that the Assessor was a representative of the Emperor, and the Sword Master was only his slave.

The Assessor did not acknowledge this gesture of respect. He fixed the Sword Master with a hard stare.

"The Emperor commands that you deliver his new possession, Viggo Mortensen, immediately."

There was something the steward hadn't expected.


	21. Homecoming, Part IV

"He is not fit to be seen by anyone," the steward stepped in swiftly. "Certainly not to be presented to the Emperor. Do we have time to make him presentable?"

The Assessor looked around the small office where the steward had brought him so they could conduct business more privately. 

"Fine," he said, apparently unperturbed. "If you could arrange for whatever needs to be done for the slave, then show me the house while we wait, I can report more to my master.

* * *

Viggo had no idea how long he had been in the room. It couldn't really have been that long. But absolute darkness and damp and chill were stretching time in strange ways, he was sure. They had brought him food twice, but he wouldn't eat it. The memory of Sean that morning before their last fight played before his eyes in the darkness. He knew eventually he would have to give in and drink, but for now he sat in the darkness, a little hungry, very thirsty, and tried to come up with a way out.

Except he knew that there was no way out. He tipped his head back against the cool stone wall and shut his eyes against the darkness.

* * *

He was awakened by the door opening. The dim light from the lamp was blinding.

"Viggo Mortensen, eh?" It was the Weapons Master. "Feh. So you aren't quite the complete barbarian you led us to believe. Though this place reeks of your filth. On your feet, Outlander. Time to meet your new master."

Viggo could have laughed in relief. If the Weapons Master were sounding that cheerful, something good had happened. The man entered the room, kicking over the cup of water by the door. He looked at Viggo hard, with an expression of sympathy and understanding in his eyes that made him think of the morning the old swordsman had told him about Sean's "death."

"The steward said you hadn't eaten, the son of a dog. But he didn't say you hadn't drunk." He held out his hand, which Viggo took gratefully. "Let's get you to the barracks and get some food and water into you. Then you'll need a bath. I assume you will insist on wearing your ridiculous…" The old man waved vaguely at Viggo's legs. 

Viggo laughed weakly and nodded.

"I have a new master, then?" he asked.

Then he realized something.

He looked at his teacher.

"How did you know my name?!"

* * *

They left Viggo alone in a modest chamber on an upper floor of the Emperor's residence. He was clean and dressed in leather and linen, as he always was, these days. He felt almost naked without his weapons, which he had been allowed to bring all the way to the door of the room, but then required to surrender before the Emperor met with him. Interesting.

Apparently the Emperor wanted to meet with him privately, with no bodyguard. No advisors.

Even more interesting.

The door opened behind him and he turned quickly. No one had told him how he should greet the Emperor. Should he bow? Or salute? Or what? 

In the end it didn't matter.

Peter Jackson stood in the doorway.

After the experience of the last two days, it was just too much.

He caught the edge of the windowsill behind him, then sat down heavily on the prop it offered.

"Pete?" he finally managed.

The Emperor laughed at him. Good God! He was still wearing shorts and wandering around with no shoes. Just as unshaven and disreputable as he had ever been on the set.

Peter. Fucking. Jackson.

"You're looking very Jim Morrison, there, Mortensen," Pete said, coming towards him, laughing. Viggo was so shocked he could barely return the warm embrace of this apparition from another life. He found himself being held at arm's length and scrutinized closely.

"How long's it been, Viggo, since Wellington? Seems like a lifetime."

"Four years," Viggo breathed. "I came here four years ago. And you cannot seriously be telling me that you are the Emperor…"

Pete just laughed at him and gestured out the window.

"All mine to command!" He said with a laugh. "But I've been here much longer than you have. I'm coming up on 16 years very soon, I think." He said it as if a few extra years could explain how he had risen to the highest seat of power in this place. Classic PJ. Modesty and arrogance in one package.

But it also didn't make any sense.

"No, that can't be," Viggo replied. "I was working with you in Wellington four years ago."

Pete shook his head and shrugged, and went to sit in one of the arm chairs in the room. Viggo realized suddenly how 20th century Wellington this room felt. Upholstered furniture. Comfortable reclining arm chairs. It was surreal. Viggo thought he might have done the same, if he were Emperor in this place. Why not use your nearly infinite power to recreate the comforts of home? Viggo chose one of them for himself and sprawled in it, unable to stop staring at Pete.

"Who knows what's possible?" he replied. "Do you even know how you got here?"

"No," Viggo said. "I just found myself here. I can't even remember what I was doing in our world right before I arrived. I was just suddenly in the arena…"

Pete sat forward. 

"When?! Not that first melee you were in?!"

Viggo nodded.

"I knew it was you! I saw you from my box, in the crowd, and I recognized all those tricks of Bob's that you used to do so well! I couldn’t believe it! But you were Sennet's slave, and I didn't see any reason to interfere with that. Especially because I have met others…"

"Like Sean," Viggo murmured.

"Exactly," Pete answered. "I hadn't recognized him 'til I saw him with you that day. But exactly like that. And all from Wellington. So strange. Both Ians, and John Rhys-Davies. Alan Lee, weirdly enough. But they weren't the same people…"

They sat quietly for a while.

"Actually," Pete said, breaking the thoughtful silence, "Your fighting style aside, I wouldn't have bothered with you at all if you hadn't suddenly become my slave. But I found out about Sennet, and I couldn't resist the temptation."

"Which brings me to another question," he said. His mood changed suddenly, and to his surprise, Viggo was now facing a new person – serious, maybe a little hostile.

"How did you manage it?"

"What?" Viggo asked, confused.

"You killed Sennet. You're MO is all over it. But my Assessor says you have been locked in his cellar for days."

Viggo shook his head.

"It wasn't me, Pete. He locked me in that room two – or three? – days ago. I can't say I'm sorry he's gone, but I had nothing to do with it."

Pete kicked a leg over the side of his chair and regarded him with a considering look.

"You've been a lot of trouble for me, you realize?" Pete said. "I didn't just land on the throne 16 years ago, you know. And you have spent the last, what, more than a year now creating havoc in the upper echelons of power in this city."

Viggo didn't see any point in denying it. Somehow Pete knew, and somehow that wasn't surprising.

"So if you knew it was me, why didn't you do anything about it?"

Pete shrugged.

"Because it was you." He said flatly. "And because you never seemed interested in anyone very important to me."

The silence that settled over them next wasn't quite as easy as the first. Viggo was thinking furiously. This was the Pete he had come to know in Wellington, and yet, he wasn't. Though to be fair, Viggo wasn't exactly the same person he'd been in Wellington, either.

"So where do we go from here?" Viggo asked carefully.

Pete shrugged.

"I go to my afternoon session of Court business. You go to the auction block tomorrow with the rest of Sennet's slaves."

The casual viciousness of the statement left Viggo speechless. Pete smiled at him coldly.

"Once you get settled in with your new master, you can continue your little murder-for-hire business if it suits you both. But I expect you to keep out of this house and away from my close advisors. Someone asks you to take jobs that will hurt people close to me, you turn the jobs down."

"And of course, I expect you to accept imperial commands."

Viggo just stared at him. The pleasant surprise of connecting back to Wellington being quickly replaced by the old, bitter anger at how easily he had been made a thing in this place.

"So you send me away from here to be sold at auction, and expect me to offer you respect and deference in the future?"

The Emperor's reply was just as cold.

"I have just offered you a reprieve for approximately 23 killings in the past year. One of which was nothing but a murder of revenge against one of Sean's lovers. You should bow down and kiss your Emperor's feet for not having you drawn and quartered to the shrieks of the crowd tomorrow."

Viggo's heart stopped in his chest.

Then Pete stood with a broad smile.

"Come on, Vig! I have to get downstairs or my people get irritable." He held out his hand, and Viggo shook it automatically. "Tomorrow will be fine. Give my best to Sean, the next time you see him. And if you ever meet anybody else really from Wellington, be sure to let me know."

Then Pete was gone, and Viggo was left starting at the bizarre faux La-Z-Boy loungers and wondering just how close Pete ever had been to sending him back to the arena.

* * *

Viggo stood at behind the large platform with the rest of Sennet's slaves. The auction had been organized quickly, but it had drawn a lot of attention. Sennet really did have one of the best barracks in the city. They were starting with the most recent acquisitions first, saving the most experienced fighters for later and himself and the Weapons Master for last. He expected it to be a long wait.

But as the auction got underway and the first two or three warriors were sold, a murmur started in the crowd out front. The Weapons Master finally kicked the warrior in front of him, who passed the word up that the old man wanted to know what was going on.

The whispers finally made their way back.

"Some woman's topping every bid!" he muttered.

The Weapons Master groaned.

"Gods save us from women with money. Let's hope she's representing someone, and not here playing with her father's gold."

The afternoon went much more quickly than expected, as the woman continued to win every bid as if money were no object, and eventually the other bidders mostly stopped bothering. 

But when it came to be Viggo's turn on the block, and the auctioneer turned to her for the first bid, she bowed her head demurely and turned to the man sitting beside her.

Sean made the first bid.


	22. Homecoming, Final

Sean's heart pounded as Viggo stood before him. His. Safe. _His..._

Nothing in his life had ever quite felt like this.

Viggo was his. Belonged to him. To do with as he would. To keep. To protect. To love. To use. 

Viggo still wore the collar of all Sennet's fighting slaves. 

A narrow leather collar, carved intricately. The designs were meant to be painted gold, but the paint wore off over time. 

Sean remembered the torture and anticipation of Viggo reapplying the gold paint to the designs on the night before a fight. Remembered the odd mixture of pride and possession and guilt he would feel when he painted Viggo's.

* * *

The rattle of the bar across the door woke Sean from his light nap. He untangled himself from Viggo and the coverlet and cursed under his breath. The man had only just fallen asleep. Now what?

The Weapons Master stood at the door. When Sean saw what the old man held out to him, he just shook his head. Of course, Viggo would wear the collar, but Sean didn't want any part of it.

"Sennet has to do that," Sean protested, vehemently, but in a near whisper, despite the fact that Viggo had stirred and was no doubt awake already.

The Master kept his voice low, unusually deferential to Sean's example. He was very interested in training Viggo, Sean knew, and Sean suspected he was worried about Viggo's ultimate reaction to the branding and collaring.

"He'll take it more easily if you do it."

Viggo's voice close behind him startled him. Viggo had slipped out of bed and quietly crossed the small distance to the door. Now he reached around Sean and took the collar into his own hands.

The Master and Sean watched Viggo examine the thing carefully. Viggo noted the gold fittings, particularly the clasp, which wasn't a tie or a buckle, but a cleverly crafted rivet, that once set in place wouldn't open again. The collar was meant to be worn constantly. No reason for a complicated way to take it on and off. Viggo raised his eyes to meet Sean's. Then, with a few quietly spoken words, he handed the collar to Sean, turned, and knelt in the middle of the floor between the fireplace and the sleeping platform.

Sean stepped forward and drew the collar snugly around Viggo's throat.

* * *

Viggo sat straight-backed on the high stool. 

Sean behind him with the fine horsehair brush in one hand, the tiny pot of gilt in the other.

Expensive gold paint was for the crowd in the tiers, not everyday wear in the barracks. So now, the day before his first trip to the arena as Sennet's slave, it was time to paint Viggo's collar.

Trust Viggo to make it as difficult as possible.

Viggo wore his hair long. Longer than any of the other men in the barracks, anyway. Much too long, in Sean's opinion, just brushing his shoulders. Sean couldn't understand how he could stand to fight that way, with it always in his eyes, on his neck. Now that they were talking and Sean could ask him about it, Viggo just muttered something about someone named Aragorn and refused to discuss possibly cutting it. 

In any case, at the moment it was plenty long enough to get in Sean's way. 

Sean sighed in irritation and put the brush and paint down again on the top of the carved chest. It had been hard enough to get Viggo to sit still for this. The anger was visible in every line of his still back and shoulders, the tension in his long arms, the occasional flex of the muscles in his thigh. Sean shook his head. 

He crawled over the bed to the windowsill. Viggo had left a string of leather there. One of the ones he used to hold the hair out of his face as he practiced. Now Sean trailed it through his fingers and stood behind Viggo again.

To his amazement, Viggo hadn't moved. Just sat still and quietly, waiting. The anger was pouring off him. He was nearly vibrating with it. But apparently he had decided that there was no point in resisting this. 

Sean laid the strand of leather over Viggo's shoulder, and reached out tentatively to touch Viggo's hair. Sean began to gather the silky strands carefully, running his fingers over Viggo's forehead and temples, collecting the loose hair methodically, holding the strands carefully tucked in his left palm as he ran the fingers of his right hand around the edge of Viggo's ear, down his neck, pulling the strands together to tie at the top of his head. Then again on the left. But Viggo's hair wasn't really long enough to do this, and Sean really didn't know what he was doing, so when he had it all drawn together and ready to tie, he couldn't figure out how to get the strand of leather around and knotted without losing his grip on the whole process. 

The silken strands slipped loose, and suddenly Sean was back at the beginning. He cursed under his breath and started over. Running fingers over forehead, temple, ear, neck, raking them through the strands, careful to be gentle, so as not to pull. Sean's pulse rate was climbing. The whole thing was far too intimate, his fingers caressing and stroking… When it all came falling down a second time, he kicked his heel back against the carved trunk in frustration and dropped the leather strand into Viggo's lap.

"Here, you do it," he snarled. It didn't help his mood when he heard Viggo laugh under his breath.

* * *

Zara freed the men one by one as they were brought to her from the platform. First she unbound their arms. Then she slipped her small, sharp belt knife under the collars and cut them. Finally, she offered each man his own sword. She and Sean had bought those earlier in the day and were ready. A smith, of course, would be needed to finish the job - to apply the brand that would mark them as freed. But it was a simple as that really.

* * *

"You can't free a free man," Viggo stated quietly, as Sean reached out and caught a finger under his collar.

"But you aren't a free man anymore," Sean replied, his hand trembling as he reached to his belt for his knife. "I said the binding words over you. You were free until I said them, but the words and the brand made you a slave."

Viggo caught his wrist and gave him that crazed, toothy grin. Suddenly Sean couldn't breathe.

"I've been your slave for a long time, then, and you've hardly gotten any benefit from it," Viggo replied. 

His eyes were bright with mischief and anticipation. 

Then the glimpse of Viggo's motives was hidden as he dropped his eyes, properly subservient for a slave. 

"You should get at least a day's work for all your investment."

Sean swallowed hard on the strange and unexpected feeling of power and _lust_ that swept over him at Viggo's very correct bow and lowered eyes.

"If my master wills it, I am ready to escort him home," Viggo murmured. A bit forward for a slave, but then, this slave was accustomed to a high ranking and important place of leadership in his former household. A valuable warrior and manager. 

"Viggo," his whispered hoarsely. "I'm not sure I should play this game."

"If it's only a game," Viggo returned just as quietly, "Then what harm can it do?"

"Viggo," he pleaded. And found that he was unexpectedly crying. "I can't do this." And suddenly he was wrapped in Viggo's arms. That familiar voice in his ear, hushing him, a soft palm smoothing over his hair. 

"I'm sorry. Shhhhh. It's alright. Sean, I'm sorry. Stop. Please. I shouldn't have. I should have thought. Here..."

Viggo pulled away a little and reached down between them to draw the knife from Sean's belt. He pressed the hilt into Sean's hand, and tilted his head to the side.

Sean reached forward to brush Viggo's hair back from his cheek, tucking it behind his ear. Then, concentrating on steadying his hand, he slipped the finely sharpened edge between flesh and leather and cut the bond away. As the scrap of leather fell to the ground between them, Viggo lifted his eyes and something about his gaze made Sean's heart stutter.

"Let's find the smith," Viggo said quietly.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is actually the backstory for something else (that I never wrote), and when I started writing I never intended for it to be historical fiction. However, as I moved forward, I realized it was going to resonate as gladiators in Rome, so I made a minor effort to get a few facts right.
> 
> The historical truths in my story:  
> 1\. Gladiators were valuable slaves. They got the best food and the best medical care. They were an important investment for their owners.
> 
> 2\. Gladiators were celebrities, like rock stars. People actually became gladiators willingly for the honor and fame of the profession. Gladiators had groupies. Women, including women of highly respectable families, came to their barracks for sex. 
> 
> 3\. The gladiator fights were considered to be the most wholesome and important entertainment for citizens, because of the values the fights illustrated - honor, courage, strength, skill in battle.
> 
> 4\. Gladiators got a portion of the prizes they earned in the arena.
> 
> 5\. And, from a show about pheromones I once saw on the science channel, after they cleaned themselves (as described in Water and Oil), the oil from their bodies was sold to women as a cosmetic. The oils actually contained hormones from the fighters' sweat that had health benefits for a user's skin and body.
> 
> And the rest is the product of _my own brain_. Thank you. *bows*
> 
> Also, regarding the names. I suck at making up names. So for consistency, I used a [Roman name generator.](http://www.novaroma.org/via_romana/names.html) :)


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